


The First Test: Just a Bit of Fun

by kutubiyya



Series: An Indian Summer [1]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, First Time, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Terrible Innuendo, coy tags are coy, ridiculous levels of detail about oral sex, sort of an AU in which Swanderson isn't a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out it's not the easiest thing in the world to concentrate on a Test series against India when you're having a sort-of-affair with one of your teammates. Not that it's anything serious; it's just a bit of fun. Right?</p><p>(Trent Bridge, July 2014)</p><p>[NB: Chapters 1-5 are quite heavy on the smut (especially 5); chapter 6 is more towards the conversation/drama/fluff end of the spectrum, with the smut off-camera/implied.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on from the events of my earlier series [Snapshots](http://archiveofourown.org/series/154304), although you don't need to have read that to read this. (Not that I'd complain if you did ;))

He isn’t prepared. Not really.

When Jimmy walks into the bright expanse of the dressing room at Trent Bridge, Ali isn’t quite the first thing he sees, but he’s certainly the first thing he notices. Even padded up for the nets and poring over sheets of paper with Rooty, there’s just something about Ali that draws his gaze, quickens his pulse.

No, not _something_. Several things, all of them with new meanings for Jimmy, since ten days ago at Headingley: tanned, muscular arms, absurdly springy hair, mouth open with laughter; the curve of his arse, the lines of his thighs where they emerge from his shorts. The straps of his pads pulled tight in places and ways that set Jimmy’s imagination alight. Ali’s even wearing the same dark blue training kit from that night. Which, of course, he would be, what with this being the first day of _training_ and everything, but Jimmy’s brain (or not so much his brain) isn’t terribly interested in boring explanations just now. It’s too busy short-circuiting to an image of Ali’s head thrown back, his hips pushing eagerly against Jimmy’s grip on his cock.

And Jimmy pauses (he really isn’t prepared, can’t help himself), caught by the real sight and the one his memory’s laid over it, until Broady – who’s shared his car from the hotel, who’s come into the room behind him – taps him on the shoulder.

“Forgotten something?”

Jimmy just about manages not to startle. “Hmm?”

“You look like… never mind.”

Jimmy reins himself in, dumps his bag on the bench next to Broady’s. Figuring he might as well bite the bullet, he heads right over to Ali and Rooty. He angles his approach so he comes up behind Ali because, well, mischief.

“…then we’ll get Mo bowling at Belly for a bit,” Ali’s saying; Joe’s nodding. It’s the nets list they’re examining, Jimmy sees.

He stops about a foot from Ali. (This close, he’s got a very clear view of the neck he spent quite a lot of time kissing, last week.) “So,” he says, “what’ve you got lined up for me?”

In the space of about three seconds, Ali’s face goes roughly the colour of their old ODI strip. He doesn’t look up. It takes him a couple of tries to say, “I, er…”

“Hi, Jimmy!” Rooty's all smiles. “How are you doing?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Decent break. Glad to be back. You guys?” It’s addressed to them both, but he directs it to Ali, who still hasn’t looked up.

Jimmy doesn’t really hear Joe’s reply. (He gets the gist from tone and expression: happy happy joy joy.) He’s too busy trying to decide whether the signals he’s getting from Ali mean good embarrassment (of the last-time-I-saw-this-man-he-was-naked-and-I’d-like-more-of-that variety) or bad embarrassment (something closer to oh-god-what-was-I-thinking-I-want-to-sink-through-the-floor-right-now).

(A tiny doubt, but a corrosive one: what if he’s changed his mind, like he did in India?)

One thing’s clear, anyway: Ali would make a terrible poker player. His flush has barely faded.

When Jimmy tunes back in, Ali’s replying to something Joe’s said.

“…she’s not been letting either of us get much sleep, no. She’s definitely got a healthy appetite, let’s put it that way.”

Jimmy belatedly spots the tell-tale bags of new(ish) parenthood under Ali’s eyes, and feels a twinge of guilt. It was just a bit of fun, what happened between them in Headingley; but it isn’t exactly harmless fun anymore, not like in the old days.

“Well,” says Joe, “at least none of _us_ will be keeping you up all night. See you later.”

Jimmy sends a hard stare after him. Was Joe just flirting with Ali? He’d better not be.

( _Just a bit of fun_ , he reminds himself.)

Ali’s moved closer. (And he wouldn’t have done that if it was the bad kind of embarrassment, right?) He points to his list. “So you’re in first with Belly, although he’s running late…”

He stops. His chuckle sounds a bit hoarse.

“Is it written on my face?” he says, his voice pitched for only Jimmy to hear. Around them, the room’s starting to empty. “Feels a bit like it might be.”

A tension drains from Jimmy that he didn’t fully realise was there. He lets his mouth curve into a smile, is briefly tempted to say, _Is what written on your face?_ Part of him wants to hear Ali say it aloud; wants to _make_ him say it. That doesn’t seem a fair move, though, at the start of (he hopes) round two; and he’s older now, a more cautious version of himself than the Jimmy who’d flirt openly in the dressing room and dare his teammates to disapprove.

Instead, he takes the chance to scrutinise the other man’s profile.

“Little bit,” he says at last, quietly. “You might want to work on, y’know, not blushing quite so much when you see me.”

(Predictably, Ali reddens further. Jimmy’s smile broadens.)

“Also, you’re going to have to look me in the eye at some point.”

Ali does look up, then, finally; just briefly, but Jimmy gets a pretty frank idea of why he was holding off on doing it before.

(So. Ali hasn’t changed his mind, then. Urge to kiss him: ridiculously strong.)

“Yeah, problem is,” says Ali, turning his attention (apparently) back to the paper in his hand, and lowering his voice even more as Matty walks past them, “if I do that, it makes it a lot harder for me to concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Jimmy feigns interest in the list until Matty’s out of earshot and heading out of the door with Broady. There are only a couple of people left in the room, now.

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” he says. “Personally I’m quite looking forward to a day of having inappropriate thoughts about my captain. Trying to keep my hands to myself, and occasionally failing.” (He sneaks a quick, one-handed grope of Ali’s arse while no-one’s looking, gets a widening of the dark eyes. Okay, maybe he’s not quite as cautious as he’d like to think.) “That sort of thing.”

Ali clears his throat in a way that sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?”

(A corny line; but phrased like that, it’s a gift.)

“Mostly you,” murmurs Jimmy, making a show of looking round the dressing room. “Yeah, definitely you.” He pauses, spots Chris and Mo heading over; just time for a parting shot. “Or did you mean you’re genuinely too warm? Because if you are, you know, you could always take your shirt off—”

Ali just about manages to elbow him before the other two reach them. At the far end of the room, Belly’s bustling in, at last.

 _Game on_ , Jimmy thinks, as he strolls away to get ready.

\--

It wasn’t, actually, intentional that Jimmy ended up assigned to the net on Alastair’s leg side. It really wasn’t.

And even if it _was_ – which it wasn’t – Alastair’s pretty quickly ended up regretting it.

With Belly yet to emerge from the pavilion, Jimmy’s been making good on his promise of inappropriate thoughts. He’s been down at Alastair’s end of the net for the past fifteen minutes, sledging Alastair on technique, loudly, while also making it clear from time to time – in an undertone – that he’s watching for more than just footwork.

Alastair’s been wondering, since Headingley, if what happened that night might be it: years of waiting and wanting and imagining leading to nothing more than a couple of quick hand-jobs in the dressing room. And all the while, he’s been looking at his wife and daughter and feeling guilty for things getting even that far.

But he hasn’t been able to get Jimmy out of his head. Not so much what he saw of him in the shower afterwards – although it’s certainly been on his mind more than once – or the way the other man pressed him up against the wall, the door, the table – though he’s been thinking about all that, too – but the thought of Jimmy’s hands, his touch. He’s been driven to distraction by the memory of how Jimmy played him like an instrument; how he made him ache and plead, and then brought him off with such effortless, expert ease.

Broady’s next ball hits him square below the knee roll.

“Move your feet, Cooky!” says Jimmy. “What’s the matter, pads too tight? Straps cutting off the flow of blood to—”

“Do you mind?” Alastair rounds on him.

Jimmy folds his arms. There’s a word for his expression; Alastair thinks it might be _insouciant_. “Not at all, no. Quite enjoying the view.”

Alastair tries very hard to keep a straight face. Although the fact that the phrase _a straight face_ has taken on a whole new meaning since what happened at Headingley doesn’t really help.

“Don’t you have something to do?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Not until Belly gets down here.”

Broady’s waiting at the start of his run-up, hands on his hips. Alastair gives in, and takes guard.

He remembers another time in the nets, one blustery day, years ago; Jimmy prowling around him while he demonstrated a reverse sweep. Not the most dignified of cricket shots: everything gets pulled very tight.

He’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s wearing shorts; can suddenly feel every single one of the various straps that Jimmy’s just reminded him of: _Pads too tight_?

“And since Belly’s late,” Jimmy goes on, “I’ve got free reign to watch you. Bending over.”

He says _over_ just as Broady releases the ball. The result, perhaps inevitably, is a swing and a miss; the ball whizzes right past Alastair, narrowly clears the top of the stumps.

Broady’s laughing, although he only knows half the story. So’s Alastair – well, somewhere between laughing and gasping, anyway – although he manages to get himself under control long enough to turn, raise his bat, and level it at Jimmy, like he’s sighting him down a rifle.

“Buzz off. You’re far too distracting.”

Jimmy looks completely unrepentant. “That’s the idea.”

There’s a churning in Alastair’s stomach. If he doesn’t say something now, it’s possible he never will.

He pretends to be busy adjusting his gloves. He clears his throat. “I’m in 109. If… you know. You want to stop by. Later.”

“Sure. When?”

How is it Jimmy sounds so relaxed about this?

“Half eight?”

“Nine,” says Jimmy. “Oh, look, here’s Belly, at last.” He raises his voice to the approaching man. “Did you find your arm guard, then?”

“Yeah.” Belly hefts his cricket bat as he walks, rests it on his shoulder. “It was with Rooty’s stuff.”

Jimmy tuts and shakes his head. “Honestly, you just can’t trust that lad,” he says, and he doesn’t actually wink at Alastair, but he doesn’t really need to.

\--

By the time the clock’s ticked round to 9.15, Alastair’s dithered over whether to change his shirt twice, tidied his hotel room at least three times, and just about resisted the urge to down all the alcohol in the mini-bar.

The knock at the door saves him from a fourth go round with the tidying. He counts to five before he goes over to answer it – doesn’t want to look too eager – and sneaks a quick look through the peephole in the door before he does.

Outside, Jimmy is standing with his hands in his pockets; he’s dressed in slim-fitting dark blue jeans, and a long-sleeved maroon top that emphasises both his slender, angular frame and the slightly awkward way he’s standing, arms tucked in close to his sides, shoulders hunched near his neck. He’s looking down, so all Alastair can see of his face is a smooth line of pale skin from jaw to cheekbone, where it disappears from view beneath the gelled peak of his hair.

Okay, not such a quick look. Alastair takes a deep breath, and opens the door just as Jimmy’s raising his fist to knock again.

“Hey,” he says. “Starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Got caught up.” Jimmy shrugs. “So… mind if I come in?”

Alastair steps back as best he can – there’s not much space, in this part of the room, only a narrow corridor between wardrobe and bathroom – and Jimmy slips inside. Without taking his gaze from Alastair, Jimmy pushes the door shut behind him, one-handed, then reaches for the handle, turns the catch so it’s deadlocked. His other hand he plants, palm flat against the wall, between Alastair and the rest of the room.

Alastair’s heart is racing. Heat’s already building below his gut. “Want a drink?”

Jimmy closes on him, with a half-smile. “Not right now.”

Alastair sinks back against the wall, slides an arm around Jimmy’s waist, pulls the toned, solid weight of the other man into him.

“Well, then,” he says, and if he was going to say anything else he’s forgotten it, because all he can see is Jimmy’s face and there’s no barrier, now, to kissing him.

He’s thought about this, too, since Headingley, but imagining fell short of the reality. And once he leans forward, once he can feel Jimmy’s lips and his stubble and the breath from his nose and the taut muscle of his chest, once he can smell his aftershave and taste his tongue; in the face of all this any uncertainty washes away.

This isn’t quite true, he reflects as they pause for a moment, as he discovers he’s slipped a hand inside Jimmy’s back pocket at some point, as Jimmy runs his own hands up and down Alastair’s sides, from his ribs to his hips and back.

It isn’t true, because he isn’t sure what Jimmy’s expecting. The drawer by Alastair’s bed holds a couple of condoms he picked up from a machine in one of the public loos, and a bottle of lubricant he’s pinched from physio supplies. He’s not sure if it’s the right type, or if there is a right type. He’s not sure what he’s doing at all.

Jimmy’s voice interrupts his increasingly muddled thoughts.

“Can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a nets session as much as I did today’s.”

Alastair tries giving him a reproving look. “And I can’t remember the last time I batted as badly in the nets as I did today.”

The other man’s grinning. “Did I put you off?”

“You know you did.”

“I like knowing I’m having an effect on you. I like seeing you… off-balance.”

And it isn’t fair – it isn’t fair at all – that teasing should be this hot, but it is, and they’re kissing again, faster this time. The balance of power shifts back and forth between them: Alastair pushes forward, hard, against Jimmy’s chest and his mouth; finds himself forced back; breaks free, briefly, wrestling the other man against the door with a dull thud. Then Alastair winces at the noise, Jimmy takes advantage of his hesitation, and abruptly Alastair’s back is, once more, against the wall.

 _God, this man_ , he thinks; _this man. How...?_

Jimmy’s hands slide under Alastair’s shirt. There’s a callus on his left palm that Alastair had forgotten about until now; the feel of it against his skin brings back a vivid memory, one that makes him catch his breath, one that makes his cock, already at half-mast, swell.

“T-shirt off?” he hears himself saying.

Jimmy looks surprised for a moment. “If you’re… Yes. Please.”

Alastair was going to do it slowly, but he can’t; as he lifts his arms above his head, he feels fingertips trailing down his bared chest, towards his belly, encouraging urgency. When he’s done, Jimmy takes the shirt out of his hands and throws it across the room.

Alastair watches it land, narrowly missing a lamp. “What have you got against my shirt?”

“I don’t have anything against your shirt.” Jimmy’s not looking up, he’s tracing patterns on Alastair’s chest. “Well, okay, I’m not wild about it, but… What?”

And Alastair’s laughing, can’t help himself, he’s remembering one of the texts Swanny sent him at Headingley, during the photoshoot, before it all started. _Tell him he can dress you, if he undresses you first_ ; something like that.

“What?” says Jimmy again.

Alastair has absolutely no intention of telling Jimmy about that conversation. Or the fact that he was talking to Swanny about him at all.

This calls for a distraction.

He pushes Jimmy’s top up, leans down and starts kissing his chest, breathing in the scent of his skin, working his way across to a pale nipple. He takes it in his mouth, circles it with his tongue, is rewarded with a soft, startled yelp from the other man. He feels the nipple pucker, peak; toys with it some more, sucking at it, until Jimmy shifts. When Alastair glances up, he sees the other man’s taken the hint and is pulling the top up over his head; there’s a faint crackle of static as it passes his hair.

Alastair ducks past him, moves out of the little corridor and further into the room. Sees the bed and stops.

It’s not like it’s a surprise to see it or anything; but.

He’s thinking about what’s in the drawer, again. And how he’s run away from this once before.

Jimmy’s arms come round from behind him; skin whispers against skin. A hand travels down his hip, rounds his thigh. Alastair shivers, and it stops.

“Whatever you want to do,” Jimmy says, quietly, kissing along Alastair’s shoulder to his neck. “If you don’t want sex, that’s fine.”

“I…” Alastair swallows. He wishes he could see Jimmy’s face, gauge what he should say.

“I mean it. This is supposed to be a bit of fun, right? And it’s not fun if you’re uncomfortable.”

Alastair finds his voice. “I do. But… not yet.” He holds his breath, half-expecting Jimmy to let go, and leave. The hand on his thigh is warm and he wills it to move: partly because it’s agonising to feel it sitting there, so close, and not _doing_ anything; partly to reassure him that it’s okay, that things can go on.

Jimmy steps around him. “No rush,” he says. “We get enough pressure out there, without making more in here. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

The kiss that follows starts out soft, but swiftly becomes something else; able to relax properly, now, Alastair feels a new surge of desire, is pushing Jimmy over to the bed like it might vanish if they don’t get there soon. His chest heaves; he’s fighting for breath, but can’t – won’t – detach his lips for an instant.

Then the balance of power tips again, and it’s Alastair who feels the edge of the bed against the back of his thighs, it’s Alastair who’s sprawling backwards while Jimmy stands over him. Jimmy’s holding him down with a firm hand against his chest, and he’s tugging at Alastair’s belt with the other hand. The mattress dips as Jimmy braces a knee against it and moves in, his mouth hovering over Alastair’s, but he leans away when Alastair tries to close the gap.

“No rush,” Jimmy says again. “I can very happily spend the next however long it takes just getting you more and more worked up.”

Alastair hears the buckle of his own belt come free, feels fingers fumbling at the zip of his jeans. He goes after Jimmy’s mouth again; is thwarted, again.

“Anticipation is half the fun.”

There’s a hand back on his thigh, lips brushing against his cheek; Alastair turns his head, but the other man’s already moved.

“Why would I mind waiting until you want it?”

Alastair’s almost, finally, made contact with Jimmy’s lips when an abrupt pressure at his groin stops him in his tracks, and he’s groaning into Jimmy’s shoulder before he works out that the hand on his thigh has moved, is exploring the bulge exposed by the undone zip.

As soon as he can think – somewhat – clearly, Alastair’s shoving Jimmy off and forcing him down against the bed, clambering on top of him, devouring his mouth.

When he’s done, they’re both breathing hard. Alastair grins.

“I see what you did there.” He presses himself against Jimmy, jeans and flapping belt and open zip and all.

Jimmy’s hands sidle over Alastair’s hips, take hold of his backside. “Really?” He opens his thighs, making space; digs his fingers in to Alastair’s arse, pulls him even harder against him.

Then Jimmy’s grip – hands, knees – suddenly shifts, and tightens. Before Alastair’s even properly registered it, they’re rolling, and he’s on his back and his arms are clamped against the mattress either side of his head.

Jimmy’s above him, straddling him.

“See what I did _there_?”

Alastair closes his eyes for a moment, registering the weight on his arms and across his thighs, the throb of neglected need in his groin. He pushes against Jimmy’s hold, more to test how it feels than an effort to get free.

“Enough bragging,” he says. He wets his lips, gives a tight smile. “Do something useful with your hands.”

There’s an answering smile, but Jimmy doesn’t move. “Thought you were never going to ask.”

“I’m not asking.”

“I can wait until you do ask. Nicely.” Fingers tighten, just a little, around Alastair’s arms.

Alastair puts more force into his struggle; gets nowhere. “Not funny.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “Not a joke.”

His face is calm as he watches Alastair, but the rise and fall of his chest isn’t. Alastair closes his trapped hands into white-knuckled fists, and makes himself wait the other man out.

He’s on the verge of cracking when Jimmy starts to say something, stops, leans down with a sigh. The meeting of their mouths, this time, is long, luxurious, lascivious. Jimmy maintains the pressure on Alastair’s arms as he kisses him, keeps straddling him, but he stays a teasing distance above where Alastair wants him to be – denying him any friction, anything to rub against – until Alastair gives in and pushes his hips desperately upwards, bending his knees for leverage.

Jimmy draws back, out of reach, and Alastair hears himself make a little noise of protest, of loss; he feels almost drunk. When the other man lets go of his arms, starts pushing down Alastair’s jeans and his pants, it’s all he can do to raise his hips one more time, to make the process quicker. But he does rally enough to lift a freed arm, draws Jimmy’s face back down to his.

The hand curling into place around his cock is such a relief, so long overdue, that Alastair moans into the kiss, and maybe he does say _please_ at some point.

If he does, he doesn’t remember, afterwards.

\--

As he strolls down the hotel corridor to his own room, at first Jimmy just revels in the gratifyingly lewd memory of Ali lying spent, belly and thighs painted with sticky, translucent trails. But as the afterglow of Ali’s returned favour fades, he becomes more and more aware of the shape of his phone in his pocket, pressing against his hip.

By the time he’s back inside his room, he’s reached for the phone twice, and twice let his hand drop away from it.

He has to stick to routine. He calls home each night around the girls’ bedtime, that’s the arrangement. If he calls again now, it might seem like something’s changed. Which it hasn’t.

( _Same time tomorrow?_ he said, as he left. And Alastair’s answering smile—)

It’s just a bit of fun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to plumjaffas/piranhafish for a beta read of this chapter <3

Over the past three nights, Alastair’s got used to nine o’clock meaning more like 9:15 or 9:20. So when the knock at the door tonight comes dead on nine, it’s fair to say it takes him by surprise.

“Evening.” Jimmy sidles in, appealingly dishevelled in tight (of course) jeans, rumpled t-shirt, and a lightweight grey jacket with no collar to speak of. Before Alastair’s even had chance to close the door, let alone lock it, Jimmy looks him up and down and says, “Oh, you’re still dressed.” Like this is something unexpected, and disappointing.

Alastair isn’t really sure how to answer that. As Jimmy takes off his jacket, Alastair sorts out the door, to buy himself time, but still all he can manage when he turns round is, “Well… yes?” He narrows his eyes at the other man as he slides his arms around his waist. “You know we’re not actually in a porn film, right?”

Jimmy grins his way into their kiss – he tastes of beer, which explains a certain amount; Alastair remembers, now, that Jimmy said he was going out for dinner this evening with Rooty and Gaz and Stokesy – and he’s pretty much still grinning when they’re done.

The grin’s infectious. Yes, being captain and all, Alastair should probably disapprove of a senior players taking the kids out drinking a couple of nights before the start of a major Test series, but right now he’s mostly thinking about how much easier standing entwined like this is starting to feel, and how refreshing it is to be – of the two of them – the one who’s more sober, for a change.

“So, do you want to explain…?”

“We went for a Chinese. The fortune cookie message I got said _Your wish is his command_ , so I made a wish. But” -Jimmy gives an exaggerated sigh— “I guess it didn’t get through.”

Alastair snorts. “It never said that.”

“It did!”

“Yeah? Show me.”

Jimmy tilts his head from side to side. “Well. Okay, so…”

Alastair folds his arms, or tries to; not easy when he’s only about two inches from Jimmy. “Thought so.”

“It’s true! I have it here somewhere…”

Jimmy pats aimlessly at his pockets.

Alastair pulls Jimmy back against him. “Let me.”

He explores Jimmy’s back pockets first, sliding a hand in each. The fabric’s tight against his fingers, pressing them firmly – pleasingly so – against the other man’s arse. One hand meets a flat, hard object he assumes is Jimmy’s phone.

“Found anything yet?”

“Not what I’m looking for.” Alastair pulls out the phone, chucks it over to the bed; it bounces off and disappears on the floor. Jimmy doesn’t even watch it go: clear proof he’s at least a bit tipsy. “I’ll keep trying, though. Got to be thorough.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Jimmy starts another kiss. It feels rather more focused than the first.

Alastair examines the pockets from seam to seam. Diligently. Moves round to the front. The pockets there are, if anything, even tighter; he can only fit a couple of fingers in, comfortably, has to leave the rest splayed out across Jimmy’s hip and – when he moves his hand down – his thigh.

But splayed fingers are still exploring fingers, and Jimmy breaks out of the kiss, breath hitching in his throat.

Alastair conceals a satisfied smile, keeps moving his hand, slowly. “These are the most ridiculous pockets I’ve ever seen. How do you fit anything in them?”

Jimmy shrugs. “I don’t, really. But” –-he catches his breath again— “I’m starting to see some advantages to them.” He pauses, then says, “I think you might want to check that one again. You missed a bit.”

And to Alastair’s considerable surprise, he feels a strip of paper under his fingertips.

“Well.” He draws it out; it’s an inch long and not even half that wide.

“See!” Jimmy snatches at the paper, but Alastair whips it away behind his back.

“Nothing’s proved yet. Depends what it says.”

Then he has to dart out of Jimmy’s way before the other man can grab him. They circle each other for a moment – Jimmy’s eyes are narrowed in concentration, but bright with humour – then Alastair makes a break for it. Jimmy gives chase, catches him round the waist, Alastair wriggles free – they’re both laughing, now, breathlessly – and runs the only way he can, round the far side of the bed.

Jimmy advances on him, slowly. “Cornered.”

Alastair thinks _why not?_ and tries diving across the bed. As he lands, head and shoulders off the other side, he feels hands close around his calves, and then he’s being dragged backwards, on his belly, rucking up the sheets as he goes.

He quickly rotates the strip so he can see the writing. He can feel the mattress dipping behind him, on either side of his knees.

“ _All you wish for will grow wings_ ,” he reads. “It… What does that even mean?”

“It’s got the word _wish_ in it,” says Jimmy; his voice comes from close by, and it doesn’t sound nearly as sheepish as it should.

Before Alastair can reply, he feels his t-shirt being pushed up his back. “Any sign of wings?” he says.

Jimmy laughs. His breath plays across Alastair’s shoulderblades. “Not that I can see. Better check, though.”

And then there are lips working their way – softly, warmly – down Alastair’s back, flanked by fingertips. Alastair closes his eyes, drinks the feeling in – it’s like there are hosts of tiny bubbles gathering under his skin – until eventually the lips reach the waistband of his jeans, and stop. He makes a little whine of protest.

“See,” says Jimmy, “this is why I wished for no clothes. You’ve only got yourself to blame.”

Alastair pushes himself up, though he only gets so far before he meets resistance, and realises Jimmy must be straddling his thighs. He fumbles at his belt with one hand, holding himself up with the other, and then Jimmy reaches round his waist to take over the job. As soon as there’s an opening, he slips a hand inside Alastair’s jeans, massages strongly, until Alastair starts pushing impatiently against his grip. Then Jimmy pulls Alastair’s jeans and pants down as far as his knees. Alastair twists to help Jimmy get them down further, and on a sudden impulse he kicks them off himself once they reach his calves.

Then he takes a breath. It’s the most naked he’s been with Jimmy so far, this. Well, under these circumstances, anyway.

Jimmy shifts, is kissing the small of his back, again, and after a moment Alastair lowers himself down. He braces himself with his forearms flat to the tangled sheet, turns his head to watch, as Jimmy moves lower.

Alastair’s skin twitches as Jimmy runs his lips and then his tongue over it; the sensation is right on the very edge of ticklish, and it’s punctuated with occasional scuffs from what must now be three-day stubble. Jimmy’s left hand disappears from view; Alastair feels fingers skim through the hair between his legs, and then brushing against what he supposes he should start thinking of as his entrance.

His gasp is involuntary; even knowing what’s coming, there’s still something unexpected about that feeling, there.

Jimmy instantly looks up. “Want me to stop?”

Alastair shakes his head. He watches Jimmy put his middle finger in his mouth, wetting it, and a moment later feels it circling the place it just left.

He makes a decision.

“I’ve got…” He clears his throat. “There’s lube. In the drawer on the far side.” His face flames.

Jimmy looks at him for a long moment. “That’ll help,” he says eventually. “Even a finger feels weird the first time.”

 _I know how it feels_ , Alastair thinks, but doesn’t say. He makes a move for the drawer.

“No, you stay there,” says Jimmy. “I’ll get it.” He gets off the bed, walks round.

While he does, Alastair takes the chance to swing his legs round, sit up, and pull his t-shirt the rest of the way off. As he drops it over the side of the bed, he sees that Jimmy has gone still beside the open drawer, is watching him.

Alastair’s mouth goes dry. He’s not an idiot. He knows – he’s been told – that some people find him attractive. But he’s never seen it so raw, so visible in someone else’s face before: desire mixed with something that could be wonder.

It makes him feel vulnerable. And powerful.

He can redress the balance – a bit – on the former, anyway.

“I can’t help but notice,” he says, and he enjoys the archness of what he’s saying, of how he’s saying it, “that _you’re_ still fully dressed.”

“So I am,” says Jimmy, and Alastair knows he’s never going to out-brazen or out-smug or out-whatever Jimmy, and right then he doesn’t care, he’s pushing himself across the bed to where Jimmy’s standing, and he’s up on his knees and undoing Jimmy’s belt while the other man’s discarding his t-shirt and then taking Alastair’s face in both hands for a long kiss.

Jimmy bears down on him, pratfalling onto the bed and pulling Alastair down with him, and they’re lying face to face and Alastair never sees how it happens – he’s lost in the task of getting Jimmy’s pants out of his way so he can get at what he wants – but he feels the cool, viscous smear of lube against his entrance and, after a moment, a finger starting to push its way in.

And it does feel odd; not wrong, but subtly strange, like he still just about remembers. But this time he waits, lets it push deeper, and he strokes the hardness of Jimmy while Jimmy strokes the inside of him. Until he starts to feel a prickling sensation, and grunts in surprise.

Jimmy smiles, pushes Alastair’s hand away from him, and – without letting the rhythm of his fingering falter – shuffles down Alastair’s body. He kisses a swift path down Alastair’s belly, dips his head, and Alastair feels the warm, wet embrace of Jimmy’s mouth around his shaft. Then another finger joins the first inside him.

Two very distinct sensations: one centred on his cock, the other in some undefined place between his legs he didn’t know existed. (No: he did know, he just didn’t _know_.) The two feelings coil together, making Alastair curl his toes; making him moan, helplessly.

He makes another decision, although _decision_ might be overstating it: this is want; this is _need_. He twists his fingers into Jimmy’s hair, pushes the other man’s head away from between his legs, and says, as clearly as he can manage, “Fuck me.”

Jimmy’s breathing hard. His lips are wet; they shine in the light of the bedside lamp. “Sure?”

“Yes. _God_ , yes.”

A grin. “Your wish is my command,” Jimmy says, and Alastair groans because it’s such a terrible line, and it’s beyond him how Jimmy is still thinking clearly enough to deliver it, but he finds it strangely endearing and hot anyway.

Alastair turns back onto his belly, grabbing a pillow – for something to do with his suddenly nervous hands, as much as anything – while Jimmy opens the drawer for a condom. He watches through a haze as Jimmy rolls it on, slicks the length of it – of him – with more lube. He looks away as Jimmy wipes his hands and gets back on the bed, feels fingers tracing a path down his back (again, his skin shivers) and then strong hands are lifting his hips and parting him and a bluntness comes to rest against his entrance. He hears the other man take an unsteady breath, and maybe there’s a word in it but he can’t be sure, and then he’s being pushed into, he’s being entered, a bit at a time, and Jimmy’s cock is wider than his fingers were and it does hurt at first – muscles protesting, not used to such a stretch – but mostly it’s just strange and _new_ , and by the time Jimmy’s slid almost out and back in again a couple of times, the sensation Alastair was getting from the fingers is back, and stronger.

After that, the rhythm gets faster, and harder, and Alastair isn’t counting anymore, can’t remember how to, and the only words he knows are _yes_ and _more_ , and he’s pushing back and up greedily, desperately, and all too quickly – not nearly quickly enough – there’s a sudden tight pressure of fingers around his cock and his orgasm’s rushing through him like wildfire and he pours the sharpness of his cry into the pillow.

The scattered pieces of his awareness start coming back together in time for him to feel Jimmy shuddering above him, using Alastair’s shoulder to muffle his moans. The convulsive movement of his climax inside Alastair sparks a couple of little aftershocks, forcing more sound, echoes of the first cry, from his throat.

Then all is still.

Eventually they resolve into two separate people again. Alastair feels the mattress move, hears Jimmy pad away, but he just drifts, until he feels something cool and damp between his legs and opens his eyes – wakes up? – to see the other man’s standing over him holding a white flannel from the bathroom, is cleaning him up.

Alastair lifts his head, and Jimmy stops.

It takes Alastair a moment to find his voice. “I’d prefer…”

“Sure.” Jimmy clears his throat. “Wouldn’t usually. Just thought… Sorry.”

He scrunches the flannel into a ball and hands it over, starts gathering up his clothes. Alastair finishes up quickly, then leans down over the other side of the bed for his own pants. It’s absurd, he knows, but he feels more relaxed once he’s got them on. So when Jimmy’s finished fastening his belt and starts to move away from the bed, t-shirt in hand, Alastair reaches for him, determined not to let the other man leave as quickly as he usually does. He manages to catch Jimmy’s wrist, uses it to pull the other man down – against surprising resistance – for a kiss.

When they’re done, and Alastair opens his eyes again, Jimmy’s perching on the edge of the bed. As he sits back up, he looks thoughtful.

“So…” he says at last. “Okay for a first time?”

Alastair can’t help himself; Jimmy looks so serious. “What, the kissing? I’m not twelve. I have done it before.”

“Brat.” Jimmy pokes him in the side, making him yelp. “I mean being with a bloke.” There must be something in Alastair’s face, because he says, “It is new to you, right?”

Alastair opens his mouth to lie; then makes his third decision of the evening.

“Actually… no. Not completely.”

Jimmy looks crestfallen, though he hides it quickly; Alastair bites his lip against a sudden, unwise urge to laugh.

“Anyone I know?” Jimmy’s tone is a touch too casual. It occurs to Alastair that he might want to be careful, here.

“Years ago,” he says. “My first tour. I, er…” Alastair sighs, pushes a hand through his hair.

Good memories and bad. That hotel room, the one Freddie Flintoff was sharing with Steve Harmison. The one they treated basically as a pub – it had a name and everything, though he can’t remember what it was anymore – with a darts board on the door and a ridiculously wide selection of beer. Open house. And Alastair was so young, younger both in years and experience than the gaggle of northern lads he thinks of now as the kids.

“I got a bit drunk with Freddie one night.”

Freddie. In his blunt, cheeky way, the man could charm the birds out of the trees.

Jimmy gives a rueful laugh, flops down onto the mattress. “Yeah, you and half of English cricket.”

The tide of memory is checked by sheer surprise. “Really? You too?”

Jimmy shrugs against the bed. His gaze is trained on the ceiling. “Off and on. He was my type, back then. And Fred always got anyone he wanted.”

Alastair smoothes the creased sheet beside him. “Not me,” he says, at last.

Jimmy’s looking over at him now; Alastair doesn’t meet his gaze. “But you just said…”

“I bottled it.” Alastair concentrates on his hand moving over the sheet. It’s beyond help. Goodness knows what the hotel cleaners think, every morning. “Hadn’t a clue what to do, terrified I’d make an idiot of myself. Terrified about what it’d be like. I made my excuses and fled, before…” He clears his throat. “So that’s the sum total of my previous experience: a drunken fumble, seven… no, eight years ago.”

He’s lost, for a moment, in the memory; how embarrassed he was, the next day, and how Freddie was clearly baffled, but showed him nothing but kindness.

“So what you’re saying is, you have a weakness for Lancashire men.”

Alastair has to laugh. “Maybe so.”

“Remind me never to introduce you to Clarky.”

“Who?”

“Good lad. All-rounder with a massive smile. Cumbrian, actually, rather than Lancs, but he plays for us. You’d like him. Which is why you’re not meeting him.”

Alastair grins at him. “How about Glen Chapple?”

“Legend. And not a chance.”

They lapse into silence for a while, side by side.

“You would’ve been in safe hands with Fred,” says Jimmy, eventually. “Not very subtle hands, but safe ones.”

“Whereas you _are_ subtle…?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Jimmy props himself up on an elbow, and once Alastair’s been caught by his gaze he finds he can’t look away. “Maybe not safe, though.”

Alastair laughs, and after a moment Jimmy joins him.

(Later, Alastair will think that maybe this was a test, and not one he passed.)

Jimmy lies back down again; is quiet for a moment. “So…” He stops, doesn’t resume; but he looks to be fighting a smile.

“What?”

“No, nothing.” Definitely a smile.

“ _What_?”

“It’s… Promise you won’t hate me.”

“I can’t promise that when I don’t know what you’re going to say.”

“Fine, okay.” Alastair hears Jimmy takes a breath. “It’s just… quite satisfying. I mean, knowing I beat Fred.”

Alastair thinks about hitting him with the pillow. “If I’d known you were going to be this smug about it, I might have thought twice.”

“You say that” –Jimmy’s rolling over again now, sliding a hand across Alastair’s belly, hooking him by the hip— “but I think you like me smug.” He leans in.

And Alastair knows he should be saying something like _You wish_ in response, but his breath comes short – because it’s true, isn’t it? – and then Jimmy’s mouth’s over his and his hand’s moving again and for a length of time he doesn’t count, there’s no more space in him for thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to plumjaffas/piranhafish for reading a rather different version of this chapter, and helping me see what worked, what didn't, and what needed to be saved for later. <3

_I am spinning with longing_  
 _Faster than a roulette wheel_  
 _This is not who I meant to be_  
 _This is not how I meant to feel_  
\--Ani DiFranco, 'Wish I May'

\--

In his head, it all seemed pretty simple.

Waiting in his hotel room with Broady, Matty and Belly for a final knock at the door – signalling that Ali’s arrived and they can all go out for dinner – Jimmy’s just been assuming it’ll be fine. He’ll slouch over to answer it like it’s no big deal. But from the brief looks the other guys give him when the knock comes (Belly amused, Matty curious, Broady thoughtful), he guesses he might have gone from lounging on the bed to upright a bit too quickly.

“Keen to get going?” says Broady.

“Yeah. Starving,” says Jimmy, which is true, but not the only truth. He shoves his hands in his pockets and slopes off to the door.

It’s the eve of the first Test, and Ali’s suggested that the five of them – captain and his four senior players – go for dinner together. They agreed to meet at Jimmy’s room, and if he’s honest he was hoping Ali might turn up early.

So when Jimmy opens the door, he’s feeling quite disgruntled, at all sorts of things: his own lack of self-control in front of the others, the fact that they clearly noticed (even if they don’t know what it’s about), and Ali’s disappointing inability to read his mind.

Ali’s in faded jeans and a white shirt with two buttons undone at the neck, and he’s sporting a deeply mischievous smile. He doesn’t say a word; he just slips inside, glances past Jimmy, then grabs the front of his t-shirt to yank him in for a kiss.

At first Jimmy’s too startled to object; then he’s just enjoying it too much. Lips pressed hard against his, a strong arm pulling him close, and that little noise Ali makes deep in his throat, the one Jimmy’s learned means _want_ : it’s like these things flick a switch inside him, making him reach for the other man (for the sharp lines of his jaw and the firm curve of his backside) and open his mouth to him before he can think.

Blood roars in Jimmy’s ears, desire surges beneath his gut, and he does (belatedly) think.

He steps back, quickly. “All three of them,” he says, voice low and urgent, “are right round the corner.”

Ali’s grinning. He folds his arms across his chest. “Now you know how it feels.”

Jimmy should be annoyed (kind of is), but Ali’s recklessness is too much of a rush. And maybe he has a point. It’s possible Jimmy’s been enjoying tormenting Ali during training just a bit too much.

(Jimmy hasn’t actually _kissed_ him about six feet from prying eyes, though. He feels that’s an important, moral high ground sort of distinction.)

“Brat,” he whispers, and he vaguely remembers saying that last night. He’s forgotten why, but it’s an enjoyably distracting idea. “Hold the thought until after dinner,” he adds, although in truth he’s not sure which thought he means, and also going for dinner seems much less compelling than it did a few minutes ago.

Ali actually pouts; his face goes sulky, rebellious, but still with a tinge of amusement that tells Jimmy it’s at least a bit calculated.

 _Brat, indeed_. Jimmy knows, suddenly, what it means to go weak at the knees.

He collects himself enough to lean forward and say, quietly, “Okay, that expression? It’s going on the list.”

“What list is that?”

“The list of things you’re not allowed to do in public because they make me want to…”

Ali tilts his head. “What?” His lips stay parted after he’s spoken, which really just makes everything worse. (Better.)

Jimmy takes a breath. “I’m trying to find something to say that's less cheesy than _tear all your clothes off_ , but I’m not having much luck.”

“Throw me to the floor?”

“You know, I wasn’t asking for suggestions.”

“Swing me both ways?”

Jimmy snorts at the same time as Ali starts chuckling. “Okay, making cricket things sound dodgy is _definitely_ on the list.”

“Jimmy,” Belly’s voice floats round the corner, “what’s going on? Is Cooky here, or not?”

“Er, yeah,” Jimmy calls. “We ready?” Then, quietly again, to Ali: “Behave.”

There’s a raised eyebrow, because of course there is, and as he opens the door again the other man murmurs, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Then Ali’s past him and out in the corridor, and Jimmy can’t respond because the others are right behind him.

Point to Ali. Jimmy plots revenge.

\--

Somehow or other, they end up in Nando’s. Privately, Jimmy blames himself (his head wasn’t exactly in the game when they set out from the hotel, or rather it was in a different game entirely), but out loud, he picks on Broady.

As they wait to be shown to a table, Jimmy looks around, and sniffs. “Shouldn’t you be showing off your local knowledge and taking us somewhere nicer?”

“Come on, Jimmy,” says Belly, “Nando’s is time-honoured. It’s the food of our people.”

“I always said you Midlands lot had no taste.”

Belly rolls his eyes. “I meant cricketers.”

“I know you did. I was just being—”

“Grumpy,” says Ali, from behind him.

Jimmy glances round to find Ali’s smirking at him. He thinks about standing on his foot, but decides that – on balance – it might be a bit embarrassing if he accidentally injures his skipper the night before a Test. He opts for a pointed sigh, instead.

“Jimmy? Grumpy? Never,” says Matty.

“Oh, hurray, it’s gang up on Jimmy night,” mutters Jimmy with all the sarcasm he can muster. He’s saved by the arrival of a waiter, who leads them to an out-of-the-way booth near the back.

Matty and Belly are in the lead, so predictably they choose opposite sides of the table. Jimmy hangs back until the others have all sat down – Ali next to Belly, Broady with Matty – and then pretends to himself that he isn’t necessarily, _automatically_ going to pick the space next to Ali. But in truth, there’s not much competition between a bench with Belly on it and one taken up with Broady’s giant limbs. So, Ali.

As he sits, Jimmy pushes himself close up against Ali. He grabs a laminated menu from the stack next to Belly, leaning over Ali as he does so, bracing himself with a hand on the other man’s thigh. When he sits back, Ali’s giving him a look of some considerable scepticism.

“Oh, sorry, did you want one as well?” says Jimmy, and repeats the move, planting his hand this time rather closer to the top of Ali’s thigh, and letting his fingers curl around it. As he passes Ali his menu (with a wide smile that might be just a tiny bit mocking), Belly’s reaching across the table to show Matty something on his phone and Broady looks to be absorbed in his own menu, so Jimmy takes the chance to slide his hand a little higher still before withdrawing it.

Ali clears his throat.

Jimmy looks down at the range of chicken, chicken and more chicken on offer, and lifts a hand to hide his mouth (pretends he’s scratching his nose) so he can say, softly, “You started this.”

Ali doesn’t reply, but he shifts so his leg is pressing more firmly against Jimmy’s. Jimmy’s pretty sure he’s never been less interested in chicken in his life.

For a while, all’s quiet. Not for long, though.

“So why are you grumpy this evening, Jimmy?” says Belly.

“Jimmy doesn’t need a reason,” says Broady, without looking up from his menu. “It’s his natural state of being.”

“I don’t think that can be true,” says Matty, contemplating Jimmy with his head on one side and a hand at his chin. “No-one’s _naturally_ grumpy. Bad day? Traumatic childhood?”

Belly grins. “Got smacked all over the nets this morning by Rooty?”

“None of the above,” says Jimmy, eyeing the approaching waiter. “I’m hungry, and there’s a lot of talking going on and not enough food ordering.”

Ordering shuts them up for a while, but the waiter’s barely even turned to leave before Matty says, “So, tell me about this thing with Rooty and Jimmy.”

“Or don’t,” says Jimmy.

“ _Or_ maybe we could talk about something other than Jimmy being grumpy?” says Ali.

Jimmy nods. “I’m with Cooky on this.” He gives the other man a sidelong look. “Knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Ali looks away and rubs his chin, a gesture Jimmy now recognises because Ali’s done it a bunch of times during training over the past five days. It means he’s trying to control a very particular bashful beaming smile he has, the one that says something along the lines of, _Oh, I couldn’t possibly imagine what you mean, I don’t have thoughts like that (please continue)_.

“Hang on,” says Broady, “it was Cooky who said you were grumpy in the first place.”

“You’re right!” Jimmy slaps himself lightly on the forehead. “How could I forget?”

“If it’s any consolation,” says Ali, “I’m regretting it now.”

“Too late. I take back everything nice I ever said about you.” Jimmy holds Ali’s gaze; just briefly, but enough to bring out some colour across those sculpted cheekbones.

“That does it, I’m going to the loo,” says Ali. “Hopefully you’ll have found something new to talk about by the time I get back.”

Jimmy takes his sweet time letting Ali out of the booth, because he’s in that sort of mood by this point. It earns him raised eyebrows and a sneaky poke in the ribs, which he takes as a good sign.

He waits a couple of minutes, then follows.

Getting into the bathroom involves pushing his way through two successive (and rather heavy) doors, whereupon he’s forced to squint in harsh, fluorescent-tube light, made even less forgiving by walls covered in shiny silver-grey tiles and an overabundance of mirror. Ali’s standing at a wide, white sink; he pauses (freezes) with a hand halfway to the tap.

“Don’t let me stop you,” says Jimmy, strolling the few steps needed to pass the urinals and check the two cubicles are empty.

Then he steps up behind Ali, who’s looking at him in the mirror as he washes his hands. There’s a smile on him; a light of anticipation in his eyes.

Jimmy does what he’s been wanting to do more or less since he woke up this morning. He takes hold of Ali’s hips, then runs firm hands down over the other man’s backside: caressing, exploring, massaging (watching Ali’s face in the mirror, all the while); digging his fingers in until Ali hisses, and turns to face him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jimmy murmurs, into Ali’s lips, and then they’re picking up where they left off in the hotel room, mouths sliding smoothly against each other. His hands go roving, are thwarted by the cold, hard edge of the sink. He makes a miffed sort of _huh_ noise through his nose, and Ali stops.

“What?”

“If you face this way, it’s easier to kiss you. If you face the mirror, it’s easier to grope you.” Jimmy shakes his head with a sigh. “Decisions, decisions.”

“You know, I think _maybe_ we can manage both.”

Jimmy answers Ali’s sly smile with one of his own. “Is that so?”

Ali sways a little away from the sink, moves his arms round behind him. There’s a low-pitched squeak as he grips the porcelain with hands that are still wet, bracing himself in a way that leaves a nice gap between his arse and the sink.

“Better?”

“Better.” Jimmy nods his approval, takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Ali’s parted lips, his thickly-lashed dark eyes, the spreading pink in his cheeks; the way this new stance draws attention (more attention) to the other man’s chest, and leaves Jimmy’s hands free reign to roam.

 _Fuck, he’s beautiful_ , he thinks. _Utterly beautiful_.

Fearing, suddenly, what his face might be betraying (what the words in his head might mean), he leans in, quickly, to resume the kiss. Here, at least, he can reassert control, and after a little while, he reaches round to trace the seam running down the back of Ali’s jeans from the waistband, through the cleft of his backside.

“How are you feeling today?” he says, when they pause.

Ali huffs a laugh. “Bit tender this morning. Fine now.” He closes his eyes for a moment as Jimmy’s hand trails lower. “ _Increasingly fine_. We should probably… What if someone comes in?”

“We’ll hear them before they see us,” Jimmy says, more calmly than he feels. (He’s on high alert, has been since he walked in: listening for the slightest sound from outside. He wonders if Ali can feel his tension, or if he’s been providing enough distraction.)

“Yeah, but how _long_ before they see us?”

Jimmy shifts against him. Friction, he reflects, is a wonderful thing. “They’ve got to come through two doors. It’ll be fine.” (His heart’s racing; that knife-edge of risk.) “We still on for later tonight?”

Ali eyes him. “How about we just pretend we’re not hungry, and head off now?”

Jimmy snorts. “This dinner was your idea.”

Ali sighs, heavily. “True. Usual time, then?”

Jimmy pushes his luck just that little bit further, pulling Ali hard against him and stealing one last, fierce kiss. “Usual time.”

Then he lets go and walks out, smiling to himself, leaving Ali behind to get his breath back.

Once he’s through the doors, he lets himself walk a bit more carefully on his way back to the table. (Trousers on the uncomfortable side. Worth it, though.)

\--

As it happens, they don’t last until the usual time.

When they get back to the hotel, it’s well after eight, and Jimmy’s mired in indecision. He needs to (wants to) call home, but he also kind of doesn’t want to let Ali out of his sight.

Being declared grumpy by general consensus has its advantages: no-one comments on the fact that Jimmy withdraws from the conversation and chuckling on the way back, and no-one bats an eyelid when – once they _are_ back, and Belly suggests they go and sit in the hotel bar – Jimmy shakes his head and says he’s going to call it a night. Sulky silence and horny distraction look quite similar, apparently.

And that should be it. There’s no reason to catch Ali’s eye as he turns to leave; no reason at all to break with the routine, with the order of things. (Plenty of time until nine; why rush?)

But his head’s full, his thoughts clogged. Too much time sitting next to Ali and not being able to touch him. (Not properly.) And it looks like Ali’s in a similar frame of mind, because Jimmy’s gaze has barely brushed the other man’s before he, too, is making his excuses. If the others remark on this, Jimmy doesn’t notice; he’s already strolling away to the lifts, trying to look relaxed – while, inside, he’s having a row with himself.

(Not, it must be said, a particularly heated row. The balance is tipping further towards Ali by the minute. _Look at him_ , he tells himself. _Just look. How am I supposed to resist that sort of temptation?_ )

He does glance back, almost trips over his own feet as he steps into the lift. _Smooth_.

( _It’s all under control_ , he promises himself, as he holds the lift for Ali. _A few weeks, and it’ll be out of my system._ )

As the lift doors close, Ali gives him a slow smile, takes a step towards him.

Jimmy shakes his head, just a fraction. “Not in here. Probably a camera.” He presses his hand over the phone in his pocket, and holds himself still.

In the corridor, he makes a last-ditch attempt to salvage things: stops outside his room, puts the keycard in the slot, pushes the door open. Without looking round at Ali, who’s hovering behind him, he says, “See you in ten minutes.”

A phone hums, and Jimmy hesitates; for a moment he thinks it’s his, reaches for it in reflexive guilt, then spots Ali digging in his own pocket.

“Rooty,” Ali says with a smile. “Wants to know if I’m free.”

Jimmy looks round, frowns at him. “Well, you’re not.”

“We can have a quick chat while I’m waiting for you.”

Jimmy’s trying to think of a way to stop this from happening – Ali will never get away, not from Joe on the eve of a Test – when (speak of the devil) Rooty’s door opens, ten feet away, and light and voices spill out.

And, well, there’s been too much flirting this evening for Jimmy to be thinking clearly. He hooks a swift arm around Ali’s waist and pulls him into his room, forcing him up against the wall – a forearm braced across his chest, for no good reason – while the door slams behind them.

Ali’s laughing; says, too loudly, “Well, this has a familiar ring to it.”

A heartbeat later, Jimmy hears Joe’s voice, outside. “Cooky?”

Ali draws breath like he might reply, and really, what’s a boy to do?

It’s not even really a decision. One moment he isn’t kissing Ali; the next, he is. The heat of the other man’s mouth tastes so welcome after the long dry spell over dinner that he has to pause, for a split second, to gasp for breath.

Then it’s onwards again: lips, tongue, stubble under his fingertips, that _want_ noise again in Ali’s throat. Jimmy’s vaguely aware of voices outside, but can’t make out words – isn’t listening for words – beyond Rooty saying “…could’ve sworn…” and then, shortly afterwards, a thud and some laughter. Ali’s phone starts vibrating again, which, given the pocket it’s in, makes Jimmy lose his rhythm to a helpless, (mostly) silent chuckle, and soon Ali’s joining in.

It takes time to recover; they’re both (Jimmy realises) a little giddy. Pent up desire, stoked in secret and unleashed in near-silence; he remembers the feeling, it’s an echo of his past.

At length, things go quiet (both inside and out), and there’s the sound of a door closing, but by then Jimmy’s lost in contemplation of the marvel that is Ali’s mouth: he’s scrutinising it in the faint light trickling into the room around the edges of the door; he’s tracing the shape of it with his fingers. On an impulse, he slides a fingertip between the full, slightly parted lips. Ali opens up a little wider, letting Jimmy move further in, and soon Jimmy’s finger is cocooned in soft, wet warmth. He feels Ali’s tongue slide from tip to middle knuckle; curl around it. Then he starts to suck.

Jimmy sighs his appreciation into Ali’s neck. It’s a little while before he remembers words.

“Fancy putting that mouth to work somewhere else?” he says, hopefully, as he withdraws his finger.

“Maybe,” says Ali, tilting his head back against the wall, raising his chin. “Depends how many wickets you take for me tomorrow.”

Jimmy takes the opening, starts to kiss the other man’s neck; not least because he needs to hide the smile that this half-promise conjures from him. “Bowling first, then, are we?”

He feels Ali shrug. “Thought I’d put you to work. You seem like you need, you know, an outlet.”

Jimmy pushes hard up against him, kisses his way higher up Ali’s throat, making him raise his chin further. “I’m feeling pretty good about the outlet I’ve already got.”

“You’re _very_ confident about your chances tonight.”

(Jimmy likes that Ali still does his level best to tease, even when his voice is more than half gasp.)

Jimmy slides a hand from Ali’s waist down to his groin; rubs and squeezes until the other man groans. It doesn’t take long. “Baggy jeans, and they’re still straining at the seams,” he says, then takes a quick, playful nip at the skin under Ali’s jaw. “Yeah, I’m confident.”

“Got what we need in here?” says Ali, and Jimmy’s disorientated, briefly; he’s forgotten that they’re in his room, not Ali’s.

“Yeah,” he says, “but—”

He gets no chance to say they should move rooms (to find a reason for it that’s not the real one), because Ali’s taken advantage of his inattention to squirm his way out from between Jimmy and the wall, he’s hooked the fingertips of one hand inside Jimmy’s waistband (he’s wearing slim-fitting trousers, tonight, with no belt) and is pulling him further into the room. His room.

“You’re eager,” he says, to cover his nagging doubt; to deny its power over him.

“Yeah, _you_ might like anticipation. I’m not as patient.”

 _You’ll learn_ , Jimmy thinks. _I’ll teach you_.

(Not a safe thought. And not, in any case, tonight.)

And so, fuck it, he lets himself be pulled. He manages to steer them via the wardrobe, so he can dig for the bag tucked into a small space at the back, the one he brought with him last week but hasn’t needed yet because Ali was more prepared than he expected. But otherwise they’re on a pretty determined course for the bed.

He can’t resist putting Ali’s patience to the test when they get there, though, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one, taking his thorough, detailed time about greeting each new patch of exposed skin with his mouth.

By the time he’s past half way down Ali’s chest, Ali’s undoing his own jeans. Jimmy grins against a firm ridge of muscle, and promptly doubles the time he spends over it. He pauses while Ali wriggles free of his other clothes and sits back down again; then he goes back to work.

Ali flops back against the bed with a growl. “You’re the most infuriating man,” he says.

“And you’re a brat,” Jimmy tells Ali’s belly button. It sends a thrill down his spine, saying it again, and he falters, for a moment.

Ali doesn’t seem to notice. “A really horny brat,” he says. “So hurry up, or I’ll finish myself off and leave you to _anticipate_ until tomorrow night.”

Jimmy opens the last button, and blows a raspberry just above the line of hair reaching up from Ali’s groin. Ali bursts into laughter. Jimmy leaves him to fight with the cuffs of the shirt himself while he deals with his own clothes, then climbs onto the bed, kneels astride Ali’s hips, and takes the other man’s still chuckling jaw in a firm grip. His kiss is a statement of intent to which Ali, gradually, submits: growing still under Jimmy’s mouth, accepting his tongue.

When he’s satisfied, Jimmy draws away, sits back on his heels. Sprawled beneath him, Ali’s a picture of sheer, naked abandon: head back, lips parted, legs spread. The movement of his chest betrays his unsteady breathing, and the tip of his cock glistens.

He is wantonly, carelessly sexual: laying himself out for Jimmy to take.

“ _God_ , Ali,” Jimmy says, before he can stop himself. There’s something in his voice he doesn’t want to hear (something that aches), and he compensates by slapping a hairy thigh, lightly, with the back of his hand. “Roll over.”

He reaches into the bag he’s brought from the wardrobe, closes it up again once he’s got what he needs; doesn’t want Ali to see what else is in there. Another night, perhaps.

The lube’s cool in Jimmy’s palm, on his fingers. Like it did last night, the feel of it, in this context, brings back memories. (Of himself in Ali’s position, tensed and waiting; more usual for him than this way round.) Like they did last night, the memories make him careful. He teases his middle finger around the rim of Ali’s entrance, strokes the surrounding skin with his thumb as he pushes the finger inside. With his other hand, he trails practised fingertips along the central line of this so-long-desired body, learning again its solid, muscled shape: down from the neck, between the shoulderblades, skidding down the spine to the inward slope of the lower back, out again around the curve of his backside.

Inside, he finds the bump he’s looking for, works it for a while before sliding in a second finger and, later, a third. Takes his time coaxing twitches and grunts into writhing and gasps. Then. Everything has shrunk down to this moment, this vivid awareness, this need: this man, open for him. Jimmy rolls on a condom, lines himself up, starts pushing his way in.

A rush of sensation. So _tight_ round his cock. A choked cry. Could have come from either or both of them. Breath stolen and almost balance too. Ali stabilises them, Jimmy feels it rather than sees it; once he’s more or less in control of his limbs again, he slides out most of the way and thrusts back in. Back and forth, slowly, again and again, feeling Ali relax around him, watching the muscles in his bottom and lower back steadily unclench, waiting for the harsh grunts that greet each thrust to soften into moans.

Then he holds himself inside, as everything throbs, and leans forward, brushes his lips over the nape of Ali’s neck until the other man cranes his head round, straining up for a kiss, and it’s deep and it’s luxurious and it’s growing more urgent by the moment, until Jimmy has to break off because he has to move again, he has to move inside Ali because the pressure of need is too much, he’s pushing in harder now, and he wants to tell him how good he feels but doesn’t, Ali’s panting loudly, urging him on, he’s moving faster, into a pounding unbroken rhythm, his orgasm’s rolling in taking him by surprise he’s trying to hold back but it’s too late he’s shaking with the force of it—

When he comes back to himself, he’s in an arch over Ali’s back, damp forehead pressed between the other man’s shoulderblades, wobbly arms planted on the bed to either side (just holding him up), and what feels like every single muscle between hip and mid-thigh taking it in unpredictable turns to twitch uncontrollably.

As soon as he can, he forces himself to rally, groping for Ali’s cock. It’s slick in his hand and he likes the width of it, he’s thought that before, it’s a good fit for his palm and a satisfying one. He caresses it slowly at first, partly because he’s ready to draw this out again (ready to hear Ali say _please_ some more) and partly because he’s too spent for anything more energetic. But he can hear that Ali’s right on the verge anyway, so he pushes himself to supply what’s need (a cluster of swift, sharp tugs), then watches Ali’s head snap back, the muscles of his throat and jaw straining with the effort of holding in sound.

He pulls out, drops away to Ali’s side. Gives the other man a couple of fond, lazy pats on the arse. He tells himself _get up_ four times, but – predictably – only responds to _get the fuck up_ , then staggers off on uncertain legs to dispose of the condom (stashed out of sight inside a bag inside another bag buried in the bin) and clean himself up a bit. In the bathroom he realises he’s humming, quietly, and gives himself a quelling look in the mirror. He brings back a wet flannel for Ali (who’s rolled onto his back, now, is beaming dazedly at nothing in particular), and drapes it – with mock ceremony and a half-grin – across the other man’s face.

He dodges Ali’s ill-co-ordinated swipe, reaches for his clothes.

Encounters his phone.

 _Shit_ , Jimmy thinks, feeling a clutch of guilt in his belly. He turns the phone in his hands, uselessly, brushing his fingers over the darkened screen. His face is hot with a different sort of flush to the one he’s been feeling so far this evening; the skin of his scalp prickles. He’s missed his window tonight, comprehensively.

He doesn’t manage to call home every night he’s away, definitely not; but tonight whatever reason he gives will be a lie. (Although is it _really_ any better when he does speak to them, he wonders, if this is what he’s doing afterwards—)

“You okay?”

And Ali’s sitting up, he’s shuffling over and there’s a well-meaning hand heading for him, and this is not a conversation Jimmy’s interested in having.

He stands up, abruptly, very aware again that they’re in his room, not Ali’s; that he doesn’t have an easy escape route.

“Fine.”

He stares at the phone he’s forgotten he’s holding in one hand, at the jeans in the other, and drops them both to the floor. Then he’s lurching for the bathroom and closing the door behind him. He turns on the shower but doesn’t get in it, just stays propped up against the door, eyes closed, avoiding thoughts.

It’s a long time before he seeks the comfort of the water.

When he emerges, flushed from the steam and with a mind washed clearer (if not clear), Ali is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where it's due: I'm pretty sure that the phrase "carelessly sexual" is something I internalised from reading worldcoup's marvellous [Ali Cook/himself crackfic](http://cricketslash.livejournal.com/3872.html), rather than something I came up with independently. I can't think of a more perfect way to describe the man...


	4. Chapter 4

Slumped on a bench just off the dressing room on the third day of the Test, padded up for his least favourite part of playing cricket (waiting for the ninth wicket to fall, for his turn to walk out into the middle), Jimmy is almost ( _almost_ ) prepared to admit that he may have miscalculated. He’s watching Ali through the huge windows that look onto the balcony (watching him throw back his head with laughter at something Belly’s said), and he’s reflecting that it’s just possible taking a break from the man for a few days wasn’t one of his brightest ideas.

He might concede this, if anyone asked.

Like Ali himself, for example. But no. They haven’t exchanged two words that weren’t about the match since Jimmy went and hid in the bathroom, three nights ago.

It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Messing around with Ali looking like it might be a problem? _Then give it up_ , he told himself; to prove that he can, to prove that it’s all just a bit of fun.

( _Not necessarily forever; just long enough_ , he added – and there, probably, was the real mistake. You either rip the plaster off or leave it on until it’s ready to come off by itself; you don’t pick at the edges of it, that’s the worst of all stupid fucking worlds.)

Because here’s how Jimmy knows things haven’t gone to plan: he’s gone from worrying that Ali would get all clingy to being a tiny bit miffed at the _lack_ of clinginess. Last night, the other man was actually sitting down in the hotel lobby at nine, with Rooty and Mo and a few others. It’s enough to deflate the ego.

(Which, to be fair, probably needed a bit of deflating.)

Between this and losing his rag with Ravindra Jadeja at lunch yesterday, it’s not been Jimmy’s finest couple of days. The Jadeja thing started (well, continued) with the Indian player observing, in tones of feigned concern, _Your captain’s been having a hard time with the press lately_ , and basically went downhill from there. Not exactly extreme stuff, in sledging terms; his own (over)reaction to it probably should have been his first hint that the Ali situation was getting to him more than he thought. (Fingers crossed Ali never hears about it.)

Outside, the wicket finally goes, cutting short Jimmy’s brooding time. He pushes himself to his feet. And he doesn’t mean to (he really _doesn’t_ mean to), but he glances back over at the balcony. Sees that Ali – messy hair and ill-advised goatee and unfairly tight shirt – is also getting up.

Jimmy’s stomach tightens, and he comes close to just turning on his heel and striding for the stairs; but he makes himself wait, while Ali steps inside.

Ali’s smile is a little fixed; polite. “Go out there and play some shots,” he says. “You deserve some fun, after… Well. You know.”

“Maybe,” Jimmy says. (As if that last ball at Headingley wasn’t already on his mind.) “See how it goes.”

He hesitates on the verge of turning away, curses himself for that, for at least three different reasons – not least, that he’s meant to be stepping over the boundary rope by now, not dithering up here in this all-too-public space.

He can’t help himself; says, “See you later?” Makes it a question, not an assumption.

Ali watches him for a moment. There’s a wariness in his face that Jimmy didn’t expect, doesn’t know how to read.

“I’ll see how it goes,” Ali says at last. And there’s no smile, but there’s a certain spark in those glorious dark eyes that Jimmy carries down the steps with him and across the outfield to join Rooty at the crease.

And after a couple of leaves and some leg byes, Jimmy does indeed play some shots, and surprises himself by enjoying them.

\--

The timing of the knock at the door later that evening is spectacularly bad, from any number of (sensible) perspectives. First, it’s only eight and Jimmy hasn’t called home yet. Second, his room is a tip. It is always is, during a match, but more so tonight because the remains of the meal he ordered from room service, when he decided he needed some quiet time to think, are scattered across half the available surfaces in the room: one plate on the table, another on the bed (spilling crumbs across the sheets), a bowl on the floor (anyone’s guess as to why), a half-finished smoothie (not a good one) and an empty chocolate wrapper (much better) by the TV.

And third, much of said quiet time hasn’t been spent on thinking. Or rather, not on productive thinking, about things like how he’s going to maintain the boundaries between the different parts of his life better from now on, or whether he needs to have a conversation with Ali about all this.

No, Jimmy’s mostly been getting himself unhelpfully but enjoyably worked up thinking about Ali on a much more shallow level. So when he goes to open the door, he’s a bit more distracted than is probably ideal.

At the last moment, he hears voices on the other side of the door and realises both that it is Ali, as he’d expected (okay, hoped), and that he’s not on his own. Jimmy sniffs, and opens the door, to find Joe Root filling the corridor with his boundless enthusiasm for, well, everything.

“ _Jimmy_!”

“Hello, trouble,” says Jimmy. Anybody’d think they hadn’t seen each other in years, not that they were batting together all of an hour and a half ago.

Jimmy tries not to be irritable. It isn’t Rooty’s fault he’s in the way. Ali’s got his hands in the pockets of his jeans, is looking at the floor somewhere behind Jimmy. _That bowl_ , Jimmy thinks; _bugger_. He shifts, lets the door close a bit behind him, so the mess in his room is less obvious.

“Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy.” Joe’s beaming. “Are you coming to the party?”

Jimmy looks at Ali, who now seems to be interested in the bottom of the door, instead. Maybe the bowl wasn’t the issue.

“Party? Don’t think I’ve really got the energy,” he says. (Translation: _I was kind of hoping to spend the evening having my wicked way with our captain, instead_.)

Ali clears his throat. “It’s not really a party. It’s just… some of the lads gathering in Broady’s room for food and games. We were wondering if, you know, you wanted to join us?”

For a moment Jimmy’s taken aback; this definitely isn’t what he was expecting.

But the careful, defensive use of _we_ , the offhand tone; both are utterly belied by the look in Ali’s eyes when he briefly glances up. There’s something so teenage about the whole thing – inviting the object of your crush to someone else’s party, because it’s less scary than a date – that Jimmy has to smile.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Ali’s tentative answering smile tugs at something inside Jimmy’s chest, and he closes the door again, quickly.

 _I’m in so much trouble_ , he thinks.

Time to worry about that later, though; first he has to call home. And probably change.

\--

It’s loud and warm and kind of sweaty in Broady’s room (the resemblances to a teenage party, Jimmy reflects, keep growing), and he’s greeted like a conquering hero. Which is a bit daft since he’s only on twenty-three not out, but he’s not going to complain. The lads need something to cheer.

Most of them are lounging on or around the bed, playing or watching some shoot-‘em-up or other. Ali’s on a sofa down the far end, eating pizza with a few others, not looking in Jimmy’s direction and therefore presumably watching every move he makes out of the corner of his eye.

(Jimmy remembers how this works: you can’t go and hang around your crush as soon as they arrive, obviously. You have to play it cool.)

Then again, Ali’s giving every sign of concentrating quite hard on whatever story Joe’s animatedly telling. And laughing quite hard at it, too.

He’s playing it cool. That’s fine.

From the corner of his eye, Jimmy sees Sam putting an XBox controller down and heading over to the food. Before Gaz can finish reaching over to pick it up, Jimmy has dived across the bed practically the length of his body to claim it. For a moment the world consists largely of knees, elbows, squawks of alarm and barks of laughter.

“You big whale,” Broady says, grinning as he bobs and weaves to keep sight of the screen around the chaos, “you could’ve just asked someone to pass it you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jimmy wriggles his way into a sitting position. Ali, he can’t help but notice, isn’t even looking round.

(It’s totally fine.)

For his part, Jimmy does much less well at playing it cool. He tries to focus on murdering the pixels on the screen, but every time he hears Ali speak, the battle not to look round at him gets that bit fiercer. Hard to hear his voice without picturing the mouth making it. Hard to hear him laugh without remembering the sound of him gasping. Hard to think about _that_ without—

“Jimmy, you bastard!” Matty’s spluttered outrage brings Jimmy back to himself with a jolt. “You’ve shot me again! Where’s your head tonight?”

“Batting legend here?” Broady snorts, without looking away from the screen. “Too busy thinking about his strokeplay.”

Across the room, Ali spits out a mouthful of his drink.

Laughter bubbles out of Jimmy. ( _Busted, Ali_.) It’s a relief to know he isn’t the only one having distracting thoughts.

“Nope, too busy thinking about my stomach,” he says. “I fancy some pizza. Gaz, you want in?”

Gaz jumps up to take the controller from him, and then Jimmy saunters over to the sofa. Ali glances up, and his eyes widen slightly when he sees him coming. A collection of pizza boxes, all empty but one, lie open on a low table in front of the sofa; Jimmy snaffles the last slice of pizza (it’s at least half an hour since his last meal, so it’s perfectly reasonable) before plonking himself down next to Ali.

(And a part of his brain starts counting down to the point where he can ease into touching range and make it look like it’s not deliberate.)

“Oi!” says Liam, who – along with Sam – is sitting on the other side of the table, opposite the sofa. “I had my eye on that one.”

“Need to keep my strength up,” says Jimmy. “Got an innings to be getting on with in the morning.”

Some laughter, some groans. Ali seems to be intensely interested in the pizza crust he hasn’t been eating for the past minute.

“Don’t panic,” says Rooty. “There’s more coming.” One of the many phones on the table starts playing an aggressively jaunty tune; he snatches it up. “Speaking of which… Brilliant! They’re downstairs now.”

Joe, Sam and Liam all jump up, faces alight. Ali shifts, like he might be about to get up, too; Jimmy reacts swiftly, bringing his foot round to hook Ali’s ankle, trapping his leg. Ali takes the hint, and stays put.

As the others head for the door, Jimmy watches Ali out of the corner of his eye. Ali, for his part, is looking down at their entwined calves.

“So,” Ali says eventually, “does this…” He gestures downwards with the pizza crust. “Does this mean we’re friends again?”

Jimmy huffs a laugh, eats some of his pizza slice. Then he looks at Ali’s profile more carefully, at the tension in it; remembers their exchange by the dressing room earlier. Starts to realise he’s miscalculated more than he thought. “Of course we’re friends,” he says, but what might have been jokingly incredulous, a moment before, now comes out defensive.

“So what happened the other night, then?”

“It was, uh…” Jimmy shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Come on. You’ve been avoiding me for three days.”

Jimmy has another couple of bites of pizza while he thinks. He decides against responding with, _I wasn’t the one sitting downstairs with Rooty at nine last night_ , because he’s pretty sure it says more about him than Ali that he’s dwelling on that.

“I know,” he says, instead. “I just…” His taps his fingers restlessly against his knee as he searches for the right words; words with truth in them, but not all of it.

Ali puts down the pizza crust. “I thought at first it was just routine grumpiness, but then… Did I do something? Like, did I piss you off in some—”

“No!” Jimmy doesn’t bother to hide his alarm; officially, now, this whole thing has got out of hand. “That’s the _last_ thing— _No_ , honestly. Definitely not.”

He finally looks at the other man properly; catches and holds the dark-eyed gaze he’s been edging around since he sat down. Mindful of their teammates across the room, he lowers his voice.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a dick, I know. I was just… I needed some time to think. And because apparently I’m really fucking stupid, I decided I could do that without actually saying anything to you.”

(He realises, at last, why Ali invited him here. Neutral ground. _You bloody idiot, Jimmy_.)

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I messed things up.”

For a long moment they just look at each other. (Ali’s gaze, Jimmy can’t help but notice, dips a little; has to be taking in his lips, surely. He waits.)

At length, Ali shakes his head and leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, interlacing his fingers, resting his forehead against the heels of his linked hands. He sighs.

“I’m torn,” he says. “Between being annoyed, and really, really wanting to kiss you.”

Jimmy releases a breath of relief, shifts closer, so their thighs are touching, lightly.

“Obviously,” he says, “I’m in favour of option two.”

Ali turns his head on the pivot of his hands. “You’re not exactly impartial.” His smile’s got quite a measure of irony in it, but it is at least a smile.

“Be a bit stupid if I was, really. Given that I haven’t been thinking of much else besides kissing _you_ since I walked in this room.”

(That's not 100% true; he's also been thinking about fucking him. Close enough.)

Ali draws in a sharp breath, and sits back. Jimmy’s amazed that anything in what he just said could have been surprising.

“Anyone watching us?” Jimmy says.

Ali glances past him. “Not right now, no. Think they’ve reached the gaming trance stage.”

“Good.”

Jimmy slings his right arm over the back of the sofa, bending it at the elbow so it’s mostly out of sight of the gamers (he hopes) but he can still bring his hand up to touch Ali’s shoulder. Then he trails his fingertips along it, slowly: along the dark blue sleeve of Ali’s t-shirt, over the cotton collar to the knot of bone at the top of the other man’s spine, and on to the nape of his neck – which he strokes, with curled fingers that scarcely touch Ali’s skin, brushing instead over the short, soft hair there.

“That feels good.” Ali closes his eyes; his lips part. “How do we get in these situations?”

Jimmy’s only half-listening; he’s lost in what he’s doing. “These situations…?”

“Slightly too close to each other, in public places. Since before we ever…” Ali opens his eyes again, looks over at the rest of the group, and colours a bit; he doesn’t finish the thought. His mouth works for a moment before his gaze returns to Jimmy. “Also, you,” he says with a smile that Jimmy mentally adds to the List. “Kidnapping me.”

Jimmy lets his mouth fall open, feigning shock. “That’s a very serious accusation, Captain Cook.” He sniffs. “I don’t think you actually know what the word _kidnap_ means.”

“Really.” Ali tries to pull his leg free; Jimmy, enjoying this now, presses his calf more firmly against him. Ali raises his eyebrows. “What would you call this instead, then?”

It isn’t quite what Jimmy was hoping he’d say (that would’ve been something closer to _why don’t you show me_ ), but it’ll do.

“I’m just… discouraging you from moving. Not taking you somewhere else. Pretty much the opposite of kidnapping.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” Ali looks once more at the gamers. He slaps his palms lightly against his knees, then in one quick, continuous movement he leans forward, grabs Jimmy’s ankle, frees his leg, and stands up.

Jimmy stares at him. “Where are _you_ going?”

Ali’s still doing that smile. “Back to my room. You coming?”

And just like that, he’s heading for the door with a brisk, “Night, guys!”

Jimmy’s after him like a shot. He doesn’t think anyone even notices him go. (He hopes no-one notices him go.)

He catches up with Ali in the corridor. “That was… not the most subtle proposition I’ve ever had.” He realises he’s still holding the rest of his pizza slice, and gobbles it down.

“I wanted to get clear before the pizza expedition returns.” Ali pauses in the act of opening his door. “Also, well… I’ve never used a pick-up line in my life. I’m not about to start now.”

“I see.” Jimmy follows him inside. (Excitement’s bubbling in his belly, a weight’s lifting from him he hasn’t realised he’s been carrying.) He waits until Ali’s locked the door, then steps up behind him and slides his hands around his waist; plants a kiss at the nape of his neck, breathes in the citrus scent of him. “People usually just throw themselves at you, do they?”

“Casual dating hasn’t really been my thing. I mean, I literally married my childhood sweetheart.” Ali drops his head forward, giving Jimmy more access to the bare skin above the neckline of his t-shirt.

(Jimmy pushes aside the thought of Ali’s wife. The opening’s here, if he wants it, to talk about their families: to explain; to be honest. He chooses not to take it, and it’s worryingly easy.)

“Well,” Ali goes on, “a few people might have tried. Maybe. Apart from Freddie, though, not the right ones.”

Jimmy has to smile. “And you call _me_ smug. Who?”

(Over Ali’s shoulder, he can see a sofa: blue, two-seater, no arm rests. Their stint in Broady’s room has given him ideas, and he nudges Ali in that direction.)

Ali pushes back against him, showing no inclination to move. He runs his hands along the forearms wrapped around his waist, presses his fingers into the backs of Jimmy’s hands, encouraging them to move lower. “My lips are sealed.”

“ _Sealed_? That sounds awkward. And possibly painful, too.” Jimmy moves round him as he speaks; his hands take up new stations on Ali’s arse, and he uses the grip to pull the other man firmly against him, to hold him in place as he takes a few steps, backwards, towards the sofa. “But I reckon I can take care of it for you.”

Ali chuckles. “See, this is why I don’t try any lines. That’s your department.”

Jimmy kisses him near the top of his jaw, on both sides. Avoiding Ali’s fledgling goatee as best he can, he brushes his lips over Ali’s a couple of times; notices the smirk on them, and the fact that they aren’t opening. He narrows his eyes, hones in, starts trying to coax Ali’s lips apart: he sucks and nibbles at the lower one, slides the tip of his tongue over the seam between them, seeking a gap to insinuate himself into. But throughout, Ali’s mouth stays stubbornly (teasingly) closed.

“Hmm,” Jimmy says at last. “This is a worse case than I thought. Only one thing for it.”

Abruptly, he brings his hands up, and starts tickling.

And Ali’s yelping and trying to dart away, and Jimmy’s still tickling but he’s also using the distraction, he’s spinning him round and propelling him backwards. Ali never sees the sofa coming, goes down in a heap of laughter and flailing limbs, and Jimmy flops down on top of him, using almost his full weight to pin the other man while he tickles him again.

Then he takes full advantage of the fact that Ali’s lips definitely aren’t sealed anymore.

“Thank goodness I was here to save you,” Jimmy says, some time later.

Ali sighs, soulfully. “I don’t know _what_ I would’ve done.”

Jimmy shifts as best he can, taking some of his weight off Ali; Ali moves too, and after a certain amount of wriggling and disentangling and re-entangling, they end up lying the length of the sofa, face to face on their sides (flush against each other; it’s not very big) and with their legs entwined, bent at the knees to stop their feet (and ankles, and calves) dangling off the end.

Jimmy seeks out the swell of Ali’s backside, tucks his other hand under his own head. The other man closes in on him – his eyes, so nearby, are enormous, intoxicatingly dark with their pupils wide – and the kiss they share this time (and the next three or four times) is slow and exploratory. Jimmy investigates the textures of Ali by touch, letting his fingers meander over smooth cotton, tough denim, taut skin, firm muscle; learning where the borders lie between caressing and tickling, how warm Ali’s back is under his t-shirt, what works best on his nipples. (A moist finger, circling, makes Ali suck in air through his nose; a short, sharp pinch makes him break off a kiss but then go back to it more fiercely than before.) He slides a hand between Ali’s legs, feels the other man roll, slightly; not fully onto his back, but enough to make space between his thighs, tempting Jimmy’s hand higher.

Jimmy resists, for the time being: he settles for scoring lines with his nails, lightly, up and down Ali’s inner thigh. He lifts his head and draws back a little, to watch Ali’s face as his breathing quickens. With his other hand, he traces the lines of Ali’s goatee. “I’m not sure about this thing.”

Ali blinks at him, slowly. “Why?”

“You’ve basically grown a little fence of spikes around your mouth.” Jimmy can feel his own face smarting from the friction of it. “It’s almost like you don’t want to be kissed.”

Ali’s smile is rueful. “Three different people asked me if it was a lucky beard yesterday. So now I’m really paranoid about getting rid of it before the end of the Test.” He prods Jimmy in the chest. “Think about it this way: if I shave it off in the morning and you’re out first ball, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Jimmy gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t think I’ll be troubling the scorers tomorrow. This evening was fun, but it was a fluke.”

There’s a brief impact on Jimmy’s arse; harder than a pat, not quite a slap. “Don’t put yourself down,” says Ali.

Jimmy looks at the hand now resting on his backside, his interest piqued. “Did you just _spank_ me?”

Ali ignores him. “I mean it. You looked good out there. I reckon you’ll make fifty well before lunch.”

“You know my highest ever total in any cricket _ever_ is forty-nine, right?”

“First time for everything.”

“Hmm.” Jimmy finally lets the hand between Ali’s thighs quest higher, until he reaches the tight, blunt shape he’s aiming for: the constricted outline of Ali’s cock. He starts stroking it, lightly, just about enough for the sensation to register through the jeans, but not nearly enough for it to satisfy. He dips his head to Ali’s throat.

“Talking of which,” Ali says, then, and there’s a new tension, a nervous excitement, in his voice, “…has anyone… uh…” He clears his throat. “Have you ever… been sucked off in the pavilion here?”

Jimmy lifts his head, faster than he’s moved anything since they ended up on the sofa. Possibly faster than he’s moved all day. “Alastair Nathan _Cook_!” (Surprise exaggerated for the sake of teasing, but not all _that_ much.)

“Yeah, I can’t believe I just said that.” Ali’s blushing, biting his lip. “It sounded more smooth and seductive in my head.”

Jimmy’s suddenly very aware of the pulse in his groin. “It was plenty seductive. Trust me.” He grins. “No, I haven’t.” (He’s _given_ head here before, but there’s no need to complicate the picture just now.) “I had no idea you’ve got such a dirty mind.”

“I, ah… Guess you bring it out of me.” Ali meets grin with grin. “So, here’s your incentive: get your maiden half-century tomorrow, and I’ll give you your maiden Trent Bridge blow job. At lunch. Or tea, if you’re dawdling.”

“No dawdling. Believe me, I won’t be dawdling.” Part of Jimmy’s mind is already there, spinning off scenarios: how they’ll get away, where they’ll go; an image of Ali on his knees, mouth full of cock. He groans, happily. “Right. Well. Thanks for that. Don’t know about you, but I think we’re both wearing far too many clothes.”

Ali’s up quickly, making a beeline for the bedside drawer, discarding clothing as he goes. Lube in hand, he gets on the bed; Jimmy, still fumbling with his trousers (he got distracted watching Ali strip), says, “No. Over here.”

Ali looks at him a moment, then hops back on his feet and starts wrenching the top cover off the bed. Soon he’s hefting a tangled bundle of white cotton sheets. Off Jimmy’s bemused look, he says, “Don’t fancy explaining a charge for steam-cleaning that thing to the powers that be.”

The sheets arranged, hastily, Jimmy takes Ali’s hand; sits back down; draws the other man down, too, to sit astride him. For a moment, Jimmy just enjoys his closeness: the weight of him across his thighs, the swollen cock pressed against his belly (his own cock is pushed down into the gap between his legs, twitching with every move Ali makes), the strong hands braced against his chest (a thumb just starting to play with one of Jimmy’s nipples). He strains upwards to meet Ali for a kiss.

Then Jimmy picks up the bottle, holds Ali’s gaze as he squeezes lube into his palm, watches the other man for that first gasp as he starts rubbing it onto him, into him: a circuit of his entrance, the muscles easing open to the ministrations of his middle finger, the warm embrace as he pushes it upwards. Soon Ali’s eyes are widening and he’s swaying; just a little at first, but by the time Jimmy’s got three fingers in him, a while later, Ali’s rocking his hips and clutching at Jimmy’s shoulders and looking down at him with an intensity that makes Jimmy lose his rhythm, lose his resolve to draw this out.

He wipes his hand clean, picks up the condom. Ali plucks it out of his grasp, opens it up, and shuffles backwards until Jimmy’s cock springs free. He sheathes Jimmy’s shaft with deft fingers, then spreads lube over it with an attention to detail that has Jimmy curling his hands into fists against the sheet-covered sofa cushions.

“That’s enough,” he says, at last. Ali looks pleased with himself (as well he might); he reaches either side of Jimmy’s shoulders to grip the back of the sofa, then lifts himself up on his knees so Jimmy can position them both. It takes a bit of doing (and some breathless chuckling from both of them), but eventually he’s found the right angle, and the tip of his cock’s inside. Holding the base of it in one hand, Jimmy lays his other hand on Ali’s back to guide him down, and down, and down; this, too, take a while, but they carry on until Ali’s over Jimmy, until Jimmy’s deep inside him, and they’re staring at each other like they’re dazed.

Then they start to move against each other.

Jimmy takes the lead, hands around Ali’s hips, helping him get into a rhythm: one of pulling away, pushing down, rolling with Jimmy’s thrusts, pulling away, pushing down…

(In between, words:

“Like this?”

“Mmm, yeah. Good?”

“Great. Really. _Yes_.”

“Thighs… they’ll be on fire tomorrow…”

“Ha. Crouching in the slips—”

“Can’t wait."

“Worth it.”

“Yeah. _Oh_ , yeah.”)

The rhythm: faster; faster and smoother and surer, until at last Jimmy can let go, until he can move his hands down to the other man’s thighs, until he can slide them back and forth over the muscle there (feeling it work, marvelling at its raw power), until he can watch Ali’s face as they fuck, until he can see the flickering of his eyelids and the flush across his cheekbones and the restless movement of his jaw as his mouth captures and releases his moans.

Until Ali’s riding him, rocking hard against him, with those glorious arms braced behind him on Jimmy’s knees. (Not for the first time, Jimmy imagines Ali with his hands cuffed or tied behind his back; imagines watching those arms constrained, straining, helpless.) Ali’s back is an arch, a delicious dangerous concave curve drawing down his strength, directing it all to one goal, and all the contours of his torso are thrown into relief: lines of muscle on his chest, jutting collar bone, the bottom of his rib cage; the sharp edges of his hips. His head is sometimes thrown back, sometimes looking down: watching Jimmy, as he’s being watched.

Jimmy was vaguely planning for them to change position at some point, to finish off with Ali on his back and him the one sitting up. He can’t muster the effort, or even form the idea properly; he’s lost, somewhere beyond thought.

Near the end, he pulls the other man against him: clutches at his back with one hand, grasps his cock in the other, presses his mouth to the sweat of Ali's chest. Ali wraps his arms around Jimmy’s shoulders, groans into Jimmy’s hair.

(And Jimmy tries, tries so hard, not to cry out.)

\--

At some point, they slide sideways. There’s some giggling, then silence.

Alastair lies as still as he can, feeling his heart slowing, his skin cooling, the twitches of muscles calming; the sensation of fullness diminishing, as Jimmy’s hardness ebbs away inside him. His arms are still around Jimmy; the other man’s head is tucked under his chin. It won’t last, but it’s good while it does.

Jimmy mumbles something Alastair doesn’t hear; Alastair grunts a “Hmm?” and there’s a warm hand on his chest and the feeling of Jimmy’s head turning.

“I said thank you.”

Alastair grins at the air. “Any time,” he says. “Well, except maybe now, or my thighs really will be killing me tomorrow.”

A minute or so more, then Jimmy’s hands move. He pushes Alastair’s legs apart, gently, eases himself out.

There should be less mess, tonight. Alastair took a long shower before the party, prepared himself as best he could. He wonders if Jimmy has noticed; he wonders, too, if this means he was always going to forgive him the three days of silence, whatever he said, however partial the explanation. But there was a vulnerability in Jimmy this afternoon, by the dressing room; an echo of that night in Headingley, and that’s what Alastair responded to.

Jimmy wriggles up the sofa, presses his lips to Alastair’s cheek with an extravagantly loud kissing noise.

“Another time, then. Don’t want to wear you out before our lunch date tomorrow.”

Alastair chuckles. “Get the runs, and I’m all yours.”

Jimmy’s smile is enormous. “You know, I think I could get to like batting.”

Alastair feels a pang, at that: _I used to like it_. Tries to keep this out of his voice. “Maybe I should try bowling.”

Jimmy pushes himself up into a sitting position, with one hand on the sheet and one at Alastair’s hip. “Maybe you should.” He yawns; gives Alastair’s hip a squeeze. “Tell you what: take a wicket, and I’ll return the favour.” He starts shuffling towards the edge of the sofa.

Alastair groans. “A wicket? I’ll be waiting forever. How about the next time I get a century—” He swallows, heart sinking a little; _stop talking, Alastair_. He looks away. “Yeah. Never mind. Wicket it is.”

A sharp report reaches Alastair’s ears; a fraction of a second later, a small sting of pain blooms on his backside. He looks up in shock and amusement – it’s payback, he guesses, for the swat he aimed at Jimmy earlier – to see the other man watching him, with intent eyes and a serious set to his jaw that makes Alastair’s mouth, inexplicably, go dry.

“Like you said: don’t put yourself down.” Jimmy’s voice is soft, but with steel beneath it.

Alastair nods; not quite ready, yet, to speak. After a moment, Jimmy leans forward, cups Alastair’s face with a firm hand, brushes his lips over his forehead. Then he draws back, looks at him carefully; even a touch worriedly.

“You okay?” he says. “I didn’t… hurt you or anything?”

“You didn’t.” Alastair has control of himself again; the thought of batting, of his complex emotions about it, has retreated. He manages a smile. “Now sod off and sort yourself out, before the condom falls off and the ECB has to pay for the carpet to be cleaned, instead.”

Jimmy smirks. “Bet they’ve paid for worse.”

“Not the point.” Alastair feels his smile broaden. “Go on. Captain’s orders.”

Jimmy gives him one last look – still assessing, but in a different way this time – then he’s wandering off to the bathroom. Alastair watches him go, settling a thoughtful hand over the spreading heat on the skin of his backside, and waits for his breathing to slow down again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of the opening scene of this chapter were originally posted on tumblr aaaages ago, as part of a short fic set on the same day, called 'Role Reversal'. That fic is now officially a deleted scene, because I've changed my mind about various aspects of the dynamic between these two since then - but I thought I'd repurpose the opening for this.
> 
> This is super-smutty. If that's not your thing, you might want to skip it. Come back next week, instead, for the final chapter of this part, which has whole scenes that are barely about sex at all :)

Jimmy’s still a bit stunned. He’s carried his bat to lunch on eighty-one. (Eighty-one!) He’s been ready for a proper innings since that hard-fought (heart-breaking) duck at Headingley, but this is ridiculous.

Lunch so far has been pretty ridiculous, too. He came off the field without much of an appetite (not for food, anyway), but the constant press of teammates and backroom staff around him – the congratulations, the advice, the speculation on how quickly he can knock off those last nineteen runs – has quickly got overwhelming. (For Joe, his partner in record-breaking, it’s all water off a duck’s back, but Jimmy needs space.) So he’s made his excuses and escaped to the blissfully (temporarily) deserted dressing room, to freshen up and take off his pads and his boots, and generally try not to think about anything for a few minutes.

And to wait for a promise to be fulfilled. Also that.

He’s standing, stretching his shoulders out and idly gazing at the photos the team has put up around the room – seeing them, but not really seeing them – when he hears the door open behind him. He suppresses a sigh, bracing himself for more excited banter.

Then a pair of arms encircle his waist from behind, and his mouth goes dry. Breath on his neck is followed by a tantalising brush of lips: short of a kiss, but carrying the promise within it.

“Mind if I interrupt?” murmurs Ali. Just the sound of his voice stirs warmth in Jimmy’s groin.

“About time.” Jimmy thinks about this for a moment, or tries to, as Ali’s hands slide lower. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant to sound—”

He turns, meets the curve of Ali’s smile and the angles of that absurd, perfect jaw. Decides he has better things to do than talk.

“…Never mind.” He pulls the other man in close and claims his mouth for a kiss. It starts slow, their lips lingering over each other, caught up in the thrill of rediscovery and an attempt (Jimmy’s) at self-restraint. He’s thinking of Ali’s bloody beard and of TV cameras picking up every detail of friction-reddened jaw and cheeks.

But the stirring warmth swamps caution, sends hands exploring and tongues questing and breath gasping—

It’s Ali who puts the brakes on, pulling out of the kiss.

“So I’ve come to offer my congratulations,” he says, lightly, “on a sparkling maiden half-century.”

Jimmy gives a breathless laugh. “You and everyone else.”

Ali raises his eyebrows. “Not like this. I hope.”

“Not like this. Nothing’s like this.”

“Well. Where do you want to go?”

Jimmy smiles. He’s been thinking about this; quite a bit, in fact. There’s a range of options, but he’s decided on somewhere less risky; doing this over lunch is enough of a turn-on for today. They can always be more adventurous in future.

He rebukes himself over the _future_ bit, reflexively, but in truth he’s barely bothered by it right now. His mind’s elsewhere.

He moves away, grabs a box of tissues and some towels. “I’ve got an idea,” he says.

\--

They go for the last shower cubicle on the right-hand side; farthest from the dressing-room, and the only one where the floor’s still dry, both the little entrance area with its wall hooks and a small, low bench, and, beyond a heavy plastic curtain, the depression of the shower basin itself.

It isn’t the cosiest venue for it; but then, that isn’t really what this is about. By the time they’re safely inside, door locked behind them and towels hanging up, Alastair’s increasingly aware of his heart thumping in his chest.

To buy himself some time, he pushes Jimmy against the wall. He’s left marvelling – again, as ever – at how undone he is by the feeling of Jimmy’s mouth moving against his, over his; by how much he craves Jimmy’s touch.

Hot breath, a grunt of pleasure, a warm hand under his shirt; soon Alastair’s own hands are working at Jimmy’s trousers like they have a mind of their own. Most of the pads are already gone, and they work together, rapidly, to deal with the rest. When Alastair first slipped inside the dressing room, the untidy heap of equipment he spotted on the bench behind Jimmy gave the lie, he thought, to the other man’s apparent calm, gave Alastair that little boost of confidence he needed: the knowledge that Jimmy was ready and eager.

At last the box is gone, and Jimmy’s naked from waist to knee. As the other man sits on the bench, Alastair can’t drag his gaze away from his cock: it’s already full, hard; waiting for him.

Jimmy clears his throat, digs in a pocket of the trousers loose around his calves. He pulls out a shiny, square packet. “Do you want to use this? Less mess for you to deal with, and…” He inhales, sharply. “Look, I got tested, six months ago. Clean bill of health. But just in case, if you’d—”

“No, it’s fine,” says Alastair. “I trust you.” It’s naïve, perhaps; but it’s true.

He lowers himself down, preparing to kneel in front of Jimmy, but Jimmy stops him with a hand at his waist.

“Hang on,” he says, quietly. He whips off his shirt, folds it roughly, leans down to lay it in front of Alastair with a flourish.

Alastair lets his gaze linger over the expanse of bare skin suddenly on show: that combination of angular, masculine frame and lithe physique that makes him catch his breath every time he sees it. When he looks up, he sees Jimmy’s grin is a little abashed.

“Tiles look a bit… Yeah.”

Alastair goes down on his knees with a smile. “Thanks,” he says, and means it; the floor is cold and hard under his steadying fingertips. The shirt does help.

And then.

Then there’s nothing between Alastair and the thing he’s been thinking of almost non-stop since last night. He wets his lips, and somehow can’t move. He’s nervous, in a way he normally only feels before really fraught press conferences and the like. Or before coming out to bat, these days.

He pushes that thought away.

“Interesting new technique,” says Jimmy. “Staring at it.”

“Sorry. Procrastinating.”

Jimmy shifts. “I’m joking,” he says. “Take all the time you need.”

Alastair huffs a laugh. “You’ve got to go back out to bat in” –he checks his watch— “just over twenty-five minutes.”

“Okay, not _all_ the time.”

“Right.” Alastair takes a deep breath, finds himself starting to chuckle.

“Laughing’s actually worse than staring, for the record.”

“I know! Just… stage fright.” Alastair rubs his nose, fights giggles. _This is ridiculous_. “Okay. Come on.”

“Are you talking to me, or yourself?” Jimmy sounds amused.

“Officially not helping.” Alastair hears a tightness in his voice.

Jimmy leans forward; his fingers curl against Alastair’s cheek. “It’s fine,” he says, softly. “Doesn’t have to be now.”

“Yes, it does,” says Alastair, looking up at him again. “Because I’ve been thinking about this all morning.” _And the rest_ , he adds, in his head. “Because your batting has been… hot. Really hot. And because I _want_ to.”

Remembering the first time this topic came up, so to speak, he draws Jimmy’s hand from its station on his cheek, slips one of the other man’s fingertips in his mouth; makes a bit of a show as he plays with it. He keeps his eyes on Jimmy, who’s staring, clearly entranced, at what he’s doing. Alastair smirks. It helps to be reminded: of how much he’s desired; of how even the smallest gesture can be amplified by context.

Of the power there is in giving pleasure to someone else.

He lets go of Jimmy’s hand, and dips his head. But he’s interrupted. Again.

“Watch it with that beard thing of yours, right?”

Alastair raises his head again and gives Jimmy a flat stare. “Are you _ever_ going to let it go?”

“I just don’t want my dick getting, like… impaled.”

“It won’t be getting anything, if you’re not careful. Sit back, and shut up, so I can do what I came here for.”

Jimmy’s answering laugh is low; throaty. He leans back against the tiled wall. “You talk a good game,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Alastair puts one of his own fingers in his mouth for a moment; then he draws it, moistened, along the underside of Jimmy’s shaft, from base to tip. Follows that path with his tongue. He can smell the tang of Jimmy’s sweat; taste it. It isn’t unpleasant. Quite the opposite; it reminds Alastair of the morning just gone, of Jimmy whacking ball after ball to the boundary. It reminds him of earlier in the match, of Jimmy pounding up to the wicket, of the taut strength and sharp lines of his shoulders, of the contortion of his body and the power with which he unleashes the ball.

Alastair’s imagined this. Before Headingley, but more often since then. Tasting that power; rewarding it.

He could afford to take a bit more time. If the roles were reversed, he knows, Jimmy would; he’d be kissing Alastair’s belly and thighs until Alastair was practically begging for more. But Alastair likes to get to the point; and he really has been thinking about this since last night. Which is build-up enough for anyone.

“Let me know,” he says, “if I’m doing it right.”

Then he curls a hand around Jimmy’s shaft to pull back the foreskin; wets his lips, parts them, and takes the head of the other man’s cock between them. It’s cool and smooth and he shapes his mouth to it, circling it with his tongue, drawing a low groan from Jimmy that makes his own cock swell. He slides lower, taking more of the shaft in, learning the feel of it, where it widens. How it fits. He shifts his hand further down, grasps the base.

He feels Jimmy’s thighs shift. He glances upwards and sees the other man’s looking down; watching him. Jimmy’s breath catches – loud in this silent room with its hard walls and floor – when their gazes meet.

Alastair holds Jimmy’s gaze as he tightens his grip, squeezing with his fingers and massaging with his thumb, rolling his hand back and forth. Then he closes his eyes and presses his lips and tongue more firmly against Jimmy’s shaft; starts to slide, slowly, up and down.

Another gasp. “Yes; more of that…”

There’s a hand, now, at the back of Alastair’s head; fingers lacing through his hair. He holds off the light pressure, resisting Jimmy’s attempt to start dictating the rhythm, but enjoys the sensation more than he imagined he would: the urgency it conveys, a possible struggle for control.

Abruptly, Jimmy changes tack, is pushing him back and away. Before Alastair can properly register what’s happened, Jimmy’s leaning down, and his mouth is over his own and his tongue has taken the place of his cock. Alastair lets it enter him, lets Jimmy explore his mouth. Jimmy’s hands are heavy on his shoulders, keeping him on his knees.

They break the kiss, gulp a handful of breaths.

“You okay?” Jimmy says. “With me holding your head?”

Alastair doesn’t bother to analyse; later, maybe, there will be more to say about this, but for now he goes with his gut. “Yes,” he says.

Jimmy’s breathing hard. “If you want me to stop, dig your fingernails into my thigh or something. I’ll get the message. Whenever you want.”

Alastair nods. Then he’s leaning forward and down again and Jimmy’s hand is back in his hair. No slow, teasing slide this time; even if he wanted to (he doesn’t), he’s not allowed. He takes in more of Jimmy’s cock, until it’s filling his mouth; until it brushes the back of his throat, and he gags. The pressure of the hand on his head immediately lessens, and he draws back a little, swallowing, to gather himself. Then he concentrates his energies a little further up, bobbing up and down the length of the shaft, a steady rhythm that draws soft moans from Jimmy; when Alastair glances upwards again he sees Jimmy’s got his head turned away, is pressing his mouth hard into his shoulder. _Good_ , Alastair thinks, and increases his pace, a little; is rewarded with a hissed, “ _Yes_ ,” and a renewed grip in his hair.

For a while the only sounds are the liquid noise of his own movements and the harshness of Jimmy’s breathing. From time to time, Alastair interrupts himself, pausing to swipe his tongue back and forth over the tip of Jimmy’s cock, to rotate it around the entrance to his mouth. He does this partly to give his jaw a rest, but partly – increasingly – because the feel of the smooth head against the soft inside of his lips is richly enjoyable. It’s gone a darker red, now, is leaking a little: a hint of salty fluid; a foretaste. He feels a faint vibration, realises that it’s him who’s making it: the remains of a groan muffled by the weight of Jimmy’s cock on his tongue.

It’s all more of a turn-on than he imagined; this whole illicit lunchtime escapade is. He suggested it because he thought it’d be hot, and because he wanted to prove to Jimmy – and to himself – that he could be daring. But he can’t help the way he’s responding to it. Every time Jimmy grunts, or gasps, the sound finds an echo in Alastair’s body: an answering twinge of arousal.

Abruptly, he feels Jimmy’s thigh muscles tense under his spare hand, the one not mirroring the movement of his mouth up and down Jimmy’s cock. The groan he hears this time, from the other man, is guttural.

“ _Ali_ …”

At the same time, the hand hooked into his hair draws his head back slightly, and these two things together are all the warning he gets. Then Jimmy’s cock is jerking and Alastair’s mouth is filling, and he gags a bit, and this is the part he was most nervous about but it’s not bad, really; mostly it’s just lukewarm, slightly salty gloop. He holds on as long as he can, until there’s too much and he feels like he might choke, then sits back quickly. He lets Jimmy’s cock slide from his mouth, spattering the last drops down on the shirt where his knees have been resting, and shuffles the couple of feet needed to lean into the shower basin and spit the mouthful out. Then he grabs a tissue to wipe his mouth. Swallowing the remains makes him gag a little more, reflexively, but when he looks back over his shoulder at Jimmy, any distaste evaporates: there’s something so satisfying about seeing the usually collected Jimmy with his head thrown back against the tiles, panting and flushed; his chest heaving, his reddened cock gleaming with a mix of saliva and semen.

Alastair’s own cock is uncomfortably hard. He’ll need some time to calm down before he goes back on the field. He checks his watch: less than fifteen minutes left of lunch. It’ll have to do. At least he’s in the right place for a cold shower. He shifts, a little, to ease the pressure on his groin, and Jimmy opens his eyes.

“Thanks,” Jimmy says. His smile’s a little spaced out. “Made the whole thing worth it.”

Alastair’s aware of nerves, again. “Was it okay?”

“Not bad at all for a first time. I recommend regular practice, though. You know, to refine your technique.” His smile makes Alastair’s cock throb.

Cold shower definitely needed. Alastair throws the box of tissues at Jimmy – the other man catches it with lazy ease, the gaze fixed on Alastair not even blinking – and pushes himself carefully to his feet.

“Where are you going?” says Jimmy, as Alastair reaches out to slide back the lock.

Alastair hesitates. “Off to cool myself down.”

“Bollocks,” says Jimmy. He’s pulling off his trousers and his underwear, then standing just enough that he can rotate the small bench under him, so it’s sticking out lengthways into the alcove; sits again and pats the new space in front him. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Alastair braces himself, a hand against the door. He wants to sit down, so much; but he can’t. “Don’t think there’s time. I can’t hide in here all lunch with my— I need to show my face.”

He’ll wonder, later, what he was going to say, there; what he cut himself off from saying. _My_ … what?

Right now, though, there’s no time to think about that. The other man’s on his feet; a single stride is all it takes to put him in front of Alastair. “You want to stay, don’t you?”

That lithe body: collarbones accenting his shoulders; expanse of muscle stretching down almost to his hips. Too naked; too close. Alastair can barely breathe. “Yes. But can’t.”

A raised eyebrow. “Want me to persuade you?”

Alastair opens his mouth to refuse, but a small, traitorous part of him leads the surrender. “Yes.”

Jimmy leans in; his hands capture Alastair’s hips, his lips are against his ear.

“Tell me why you need to leave,” he says, “and I’ll tell you why you don’t.”

“I’m the captain. I have to be ready. I have to be _seen_ to be ready.”

Jimmy pulls back; hazel eyes look into his own for a long moment, then Jimmy’s lips are brushing past Alastair’s – Alastair responds before he can stop himself, but not quickly enough, either – on their way back to his ear.

“No,” Jimmy says. “In here, for a few minutes, you’re not the captain. You’re just a guy who’s been working hard” –Jimmy reaches up, traces the shape of Alastair’s mouth— “and deserves a reward. A guy with” –the hand leaves Alastair’s mouth, and a moment later it’s sliding, agonisingly gentle, over the unmistakable bulge in his trousers, and there’s a soft laugh in Alastair’s ear— “a _serious_ hard-on, who’s in need of some attention.”

Then Jimmy’s kissing him, slowly, and Alastair kisses him back, with an edge of desperation – and of shame, at how hopelessly, helplessly turned on he is. Is he supposed to be? Jimmy’s barely touched him since they came in here.

“Let go,” says Jimmy. “Let me do this.”

And Alastair’s letting himself be led over to the opposite wall, letting Jimmy strip him, letting Jimmy pull him down to sit astride the bench, in front of him. Now he’s between Jimmy’s legs, his back to the other man; now Jimmy’s got his arms around Alastair’s waist, now he’s stroking his hands over Alastair’s thighs and using his feet to hook his calves, like he did last night in Broady’s room, only both of them this time. He’s easing Alastair’s legs apart, wide: exposing him, and the arousal he’s found on his knees, in here.

The cubicle door is closed, and locked, but it suddenly seems a flimsy barrier against the dressing room. What if someone comes in? He’s the captain; he shouldn’t be doing this. It shouldn’t be this easy to pull him away from his duty. He can’t seem to form the words to call a halt; knows, really, that he doesn’t want to. Because Jimmy’s mouth is at the nape of Alastair’s neck, and Alastair gives a helpless shiver at the sensation of warm breath there. He wonders how Jimmy knows; how he homes in on the things that will drive him to distraction like this.

Jimmy’s hands are still on his thighs, drawing aimless patterns through the coiled, dark hair there. Alastair almost laughs; he should have known Jimmy would take his time, even with the resumption of play looming.

“Get on with it,” Alastair says; his voice sounds thick with need. “Don’t have all day.”

“I know how long we have,” Jimmy says, into his ear. “I can see your watch from here. Trust me, I won’t make us late. But you need this.”

Alastair sinks back against his chest, with a sigh. Jimmy’s fingers inch closer to where he wants them.

“You enjoyed sucking me off, didn’t you?” Jimmy says, after a moment.

“Yes,” Alastair says, barely more than a breath. Impossible to deny; Jimmy can see the effect, after all.

“What did you like about it?”

Jimmy’s hands move higher; but when Alastair, his face heating, doesn’t answer, they start to drop away.

Alarmed, Alastair forces words out past his embarrassment. “I liked… _hearing_ you. How you reacted to what I was doing.” The hands stop moving away, but they don’t get any closer, either. He casts his mind back, tries again. “I liked how you felt. In my mouth. Filling me.” Jimmy hums in his ear; his fingertips dance over Alastair’s inner thigh. “Like when… when we’re fucking, but… I had more control over this. I was making you come.”

There’s more, but he doesn’t know, yet, how to express it; he doesn’t need to, in any case, because he finally gets a hand, tight, around his cock.

“Good,” says Jimmy. “And now I’m going to—”

Sound of a door opening; someone’s walking into the dressing room. Jimmy reaches up, swiftly, and the towels hanging from a hook above them drop with a _floomp_. Alastair starts, hears himself release a gasp, loud among the tiles; there’s a shrill note of panic in it.

The fingers of Jimmy’s free hand are light against his lips. “Shhh,” the other man murmurs in his ear. “It’s okay. No-one knows we’re here. We just have to be quiet.”

Alastair sees, belatedly, why Jimmy pulled down the towels; they block most of the gap at the bottom of the cubicle door. But the two of them aren’t out of the woods: there are brisk footsteps, heading their way. Alastair tenses.

Jimmy’s voice; a whisper: “Want me to carry on?”

Does he? No. And yes. “Persuade me,” Alastair breathes, into the fingers that still hover over his lips.

Jimmy tightens his legs against Alastair’s, holding him in place. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

The hand at Alastair’s cock begins to move, slowly and firmly and irresistibly, and there are several heartbeats – between this, and the sound of a cubicle door closing and a shower turning on, signalling their temporary reprieve – during which Alastair finds he almost, almost, doesn’t care if they’re caught because Jimmy’s right, he wants this. Needs it. He rolls his head back on Jimmy’s shoulder; bites his lips against a groan, but it doesn’t do much good.

“Beautiful man,” whispers Jimmy. “Look at you. Glorious.” His hand leaves Alastair’s lips.

For no reason he can name, Alastair reaches out to catch Jimmy’s hand as it drops away: brings it back up, presses it firmly over his mouth. He feels the callus against his lips, the one at the top of Jimmy’s palm, near the base of his fingers. Jimmy’s hand is tense, Alastair can feel him trying to move it away, so he holds his own over the top of it, to let him know it’s okay; that he wants it there. At length the hand relaxes, then tenses in a different way; tightening. There’s something freeing about it; Alastair can moan harder, now, in his throat, knowing the noise will be – in some measure – muffled, captured. He arches his back, curls his bare toes, keeps firm hold of Jimmy’s hand.

“You’re getting me hard again,” Jimmy says, his lips moist against Alastair’s ear, and Alastair can feel the truth of his words, damp and firm, against his lower back. “Tonight…” Jimmy’s low voice catches. “Tonight I’m going to bend you over that desk in your room. Fuck you long, and slow, and thorough. So you can still feel it tomorrow, every time you crouch down in the slips.”

It doesn’t take long after that. It doesn’t take long at all.

Alastair shudders in Jimmy’s grip, rocking with the force of his release. Forearms brace him, solid as stone but warmer than that. The hands over his mouth can’t hold in the noise he makes, not enough, and he can only hope whichever teammate’s sharing the shower room with them isn’t concentrating too hard.

When Alastair comes back to himself, Jimmy’s murmuring, again, “I’ve got you.” He has one arm round Alastair’s chest, now, the other at his waist; both firm. He’s pressing light kisses into Alastair’s shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

Alastair realises he’s shaking, doesn’t know why, but clutches at the offered support with a hunger that surprises and – just a little, just enough – worries him.

A little later, he’s not sure how long, the sound of the water from the other shower stops. He feels Jimmy’s fingers at his wrist, rotating his arm slightly.

“Five minutes,” he whispers. “You okay?”

Alastair closes his eyes, nods, finds he’s light-headed. “Shower,” he mumbles; swallows. “Need to… revive a bit.”

Jimmy helps him to his feet, over the tiled lip and down into the shower basin. Kisses his forehead, then turns the water on for him, and watches for a moment or two, until Alastair’s splashed his face and managed a smile. Jimmy nods, then, mouths _Later_ , and after one more assessing look he’s bundling up his clothes and a towel and slipping out of the cubicle as quick as a thought. Shortly afterwards, there’s the rush of another shower starting up.

Alastair cleans himself up; rinses his mouth. He remembers how Jimmy said, _I’ve got you_.

 _You’ve no idea_ , Alastair thinks, _how true that is_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for plumjaffas/piranhafish, who has a headcanon for this fic in which Swanny is secretly in love with Jimmy. While I'm not committing myself to anything, there may be some fuel for your fire, in here ;)

It’s around about eight-thirty on the evening of the fifth day when it happens.

(Another way of looking at it, perhaps more pertinent: it’s shortly after maybe the fourth time Jimmy’s brushed past Ali accidentally-on-purpose during the clear-up of Swanny’s kitchen, which in turned followed closely on the heels of the tenth or twelfth lingering-too-long significant glance they’ve exchanged this evening.)

Either way, this happens: Swanny stops, folds his arms, and says, “So. How long have you two been doing the horizontal tango, then?”

Jimmy’s bending over the dishwasher, slotting cutlery in the tray; at Swanny’s words, a fork falls from his abruptly nerveless fingers, goes clattering to the floor. At the same time, Ali coughs and (Jimmy sees from the corner of his eye) goes bright red, feigning a sudden interest in a mark on the work surface behind him.

 _Shit_ , thinks Jimmy. As he stoops to retrieve the fork and put it with its fellows, he swears in his head, at length. Mostly at himself.

He should’ve seen this coming, when Swanny called. _Sarah and the kids are away for a few days, visiting family_ , he said; _why don’t you and Cooky come over for dinner tonight?_ Jimmy should’ve known, after the past couple of days, that he’d struggle to rein himself in; and that Swanny, of all people, was the worst possible audience. (Not just the person most likely to notice, the one person likely to be _watching_ for the signs.)

“Thanks,” Jimmy says, as he stands up again, “that’s definitely the most crass way you could’ve asked that question.”

Swanny doesn’t look the tiniest bit embarrassed. “Believe me,” he says, “I could’ve been _much_ more crass.”

Jimmy tries giving him a hard stare, but it bounces right off that sunny grin. “It’s… We’re not…” He swallows. (This isn’t remotely convincing, is it?) “It’s not what you think.”

Ali clears his throat. “It isn’t always horizontal, for a start.”

Swanny hoots with laughter. Jimmy turns an angry glare on Ali, but the other man’s still looking down.

“Apparently I can be crass, too,” Ali says, with a faint smile.

Swanny recovers from his amusement enough to say, “Nah, that’s not crass, that’s just—”

“Fucking hell, Ali,” snaps Jimmy. His chest feels tight. “This isn’t a joke.”

Ali’s gaze comes up to meet his, and for a long moment they just stare at each other. Ali’s clutching the pale beige counter-top behind him, Jimmy sees; the knuckles of his visible hand have gone white.

“I know,” Ali says at last. “I’m sorry.”

“Calm down, Jimmy,” says Swanny, before Jimmy can reply. “You’re my best mates, I’m not going to do anything that makes things difficult for you. One hundred percent cross my heart” –being Swanny, he acts it out— “nothing leaves this house.”

Jimmy sinks back against the cupboard behind him. “I just…” He sighs. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” He thinks about that for a moment, then adds, “Although you do have the biggest mouth in all of cricket.”

“That’s not true! That’s utterly untrue! I don’t even have the biggest mouth of everyone who’s played under Cooky’s captaincy. I’ll give you a hint: starts with a K, ends in—”

Jimmy groans, theatrically, realises Ali’s doing the same; they exchange rueful smiles. Ali’s is more tentative, and he’s still holding the counter-top.

Ali looks back at Swanny. “Jury’s still out on who’s ahead there, I think.”

Swanny tosses his head. “Honestly. The minute you’re outside the dressing room, your reputation’s _dragged_ through the mud.”

“By the people who know you best, too,” says Jimmy. “Wonder why that could possibly be?”

Swanny sticks out his tongue. “To go back to what I was saying before you tried to deflect attention on to me, I’m delighted you’ve both finally got off your arses and…” He stops; his mouth twists. “There’s a joke there that I’ve just thought better of. Anyway. Point is—”

Ali gives a brief, startled-sounding laugh. Jimmy sneaks a glance at him; his head’s tilted back, his hair’s falling away from his brow.

“Thanks, Cooky, for catching up with me. The point is, your secret’s safe with me, and you’re safe here.” Swanny gestures at them both, an expansive wave of his hands. “Also – and the really _key_ thing in all this – is that I can finally, definitively, _triumphantly_ say to both of you…” He draws in a deep breath through his nose. “I told you so.” He exhales. Loudly. “Ah, that feels good.”

Jimmy gives Swanny a shake of the head, but he can’t not smile for long. Ali, for his part, is laughing properly now. He’s relaxed his grip on the counter, a bit. Jimmy wants to go to him, cover that tense hand with his own; apologise.

He doesn’t. (Because he notices, then, what time it is.)

He gets out his phone. “Just need to step outside for a few minutes.”

“Say hi from me,” says Swanny, and Jimmy nods.

\--

“Hi from you?” says Alastair, as the back door closes behind Jimmy.

“Well, yeah, he’s calling—” Swanny’s brisk tone collapses into an awkward pause. “You don’t know, do you?”

“What?”

Swanny busies himself gathering up the last few things from the table. “He… tends to call home around this time. Time zone allowing. It’s just before the kids go to bed.”

“…Oh.” Alastair wets his lips. “I see.”

He stares, sightlessly, at the floor. This makes sense of a few things. Like why Jimmy’s always been so insistent on starting things around nine.

 _Yes_ , he tells himself, _focus on that_. The sense. Better than feeling hurt, because what right does he have to feel hurt? _Over a man calling his_ children _Jesus Alastair get it together_ —

“Beer?” Swanny’s holding the fridge open.

It’s probably not a good idea, but. “Yeah, please.”

They wander into the living room, take opposite ends of one of the enormous sofas: Swanny by the door to the kitchen, Alastair down the far end. Sitting on the sofas is like how Alastair imagines sinking into a cloud would be, or maybe a giant sponge. He remembers when Swanny first got them, one month when they weren’t touring – years ago now – and he badgered Alastair and Jimmy until they came to visit him. He remembers how Swanny demonstrated the way they reclined, and how Jimmy mocked him for being so excited about something so pointless, then reclined the other sofa as far as it would go, stretched himself the full length of the thing, and refused to move an inch for the rest of the evening.

Swanny kicks off his slippers and swings his feet up, settling himself with his back pillowed against the ample arm of the sofa and his legs bent at the knees.

“I can’t believe,” he says, “you kept schtum about this.”

Alastair shrugs, takes a drink of lager. He’s pretty sure he’s been shrugging more than usual, lately. Maybe it’s a habit he’s picked up from Jimmy. Or is it too soon for something like that to have happened?

He focuses on Swanny’s words with an effort. He needs to stop hating himself for every time he’s felt irritated with Jimmy for being late over the past few weeks. _Calling his kids. Of course._

“I wanted to tell you,” he says, to silence the voice in his mind. He lets his head loll back against the sofa. “But it didn’t seem… fair to do it without telling him. I had a feeling he might not react well.”

Swanny’s laugh is brief; ironic. “Good instincts.”

“Yeah. And it’s not like… I mean, we’re not having candlelit dinners or anything. Well, except one time when we did, but that was before… You know. That night I got really drunk and texted you the next day—” _Shut up, Alastair_ , he thinks; _stop babbling_. “Anyway. No, we just…” He feels a smile break out across his face; takes another mouthful of beer. “It’s not like he even stays the night or anything.”

He didn’t really mean to say that last bit. Hopes Swanny didn’t notice. Glances across at the other man.

Yeah, he noticed.

“Wham, bam, thank you, Skip?”

“No!” Alastair stops; chuckles. “Well, not exactly. A bit.”

“Are you having a good time, though?”

“Yes.” Alastair thinks about Jimmy’s touch, and the craving it unfolds in him. Breath on his skin, whispers in his ear, lips hard against his; the light in the other man’s eyes when he sees him naked for the first time in an evening. “I…” He’s smiling again; beaming. Unstoppably. “It’s… Yes. Great.”

“You know, I’m sort of glad you’re lost for words because your face is a _picture_ right now.”

Alastair lifts mortified hands to his face; the beer bottle’s cool against suddenly flaming cheeks. He lets himself sink sideways, towards Swanny, until his head’s resting somewhere around the middle of the other man’s shins.

“Oh god. If Jimmy asks, I was completely cool about it, okay? I just sort of grunted and said _s’alright_.”

“Sure.” Swanny pats his head. “But I think it might be too late for that. I suspect he already knows.”

“You’re not helping.” Alastair shuffles round so he can have more beer, then settles his back against Swanny’s legs – which move, subtly, to support him – with a small sigh. “And to think I’ve been missing you.”

“Admit it, this _is_ what you miss when I’m not around. Ways to make you cringe.”

Alastair smiles, again. “Yeah.” In truth, after weeks spent trying not to even _think_ about this when he's with other people, it’s a relief to let his guard down a little.

“Anyway, good.” Alastair hears Swanny take a gulp of beer. “How did you… I bet you made the first move, didn’t you?”

Alastair laughs. “I did. Well, that’s a bit disputed. Jimmy maintains it was him, because of that night in Nagpur. I don’t think it counts if eighteen months go by afterwards. But yeah. It was at Headingley, the night we lost. I threw myself at him. Almost literally.”

“Thought so. And told you so, obviously.” Swanny’s hand comes back to rest, gently, on Alastair’s head. “Can I give you some advice?”

He sounds quite serious, all of a sudden. “Of course,” says Alastair.

“In the kitchen, just now… Don’t let him set the tone too much,” says Swanny. “You know him well enough. It’s like when he’s sulking; if you sit around waiting for him to cheer up by himself, you’ll die of old age. Sometimes you just have to steamroller the man.”

Alastair thinks about the three days of silence, about how much longer it might have gone on, had he not spoken to Jimmy before he went out to bat. “Fair enough.”

He hears the back door opening, behind them, and Jimmy stepping into the kitchen.

“Yeah, and one more thing,” says Swanny, rapidly, his voice utterly changed from what it just was; full of mischief again. “Don’t let him tell you what to do with your hair. Because you _know_ he’s going to try.”

Alastair can’t help but giggle into his beer bottle; Swanny joins him. That’s how Jimmy finds them, a few moments later.

His voice comes from the doorway to the kitchen, down at Swanny’s end of the sofa. “Not interrupting, am I?”

Alastair can’t see him from where he’s slouching; he’s facing the wrong direction. He thinks about sitting up. Swanny’s hand, though, doesn’t move.

“Not at all,” says Swanny; he shifts, and Alastair glances round to see Swanny’s craning his neck backwards over the arm of the sofa, so he’s looking at Jimmy upside down. “I was just telling Cooky how much I like his hair.”

“Really,” says Jimmy.

Alastair does sit up; he wants to judge Jimmy’s expression. The other man looks mildly amused, but also wary.

“Really and _truly_ ,” says Swanny, and Alastair can hear the smirk in his voice. “Drink?”

“No, thanks, I’m driving. And I don’t have a cat back at the hotel that I can claim I needed to rescue if I get pulled over.”

Swanny looks away from Jimmy, raising his head, and his bottle. “Nice to see your wit’s as sharp as ever, James.”

“And that you haven’t got any less interfering in the last six months, Graeme.”

“No, indeed.” Swanny winks at Alastair, who remembers their various text messages, and has to have a long swallow of beer to stop himself laughing.

“We should probably be getting back, anyway,” says Jimmy. “Cooky?”

Alastair, if he’s honest, is torn. He’d like to stay longer; he really _has_ missed Swanny, fiercely. But nine o’clock’s approaching.

Before he can speak up either way, Swanny says, “Why don’t you guys stay here tonight?”

Jimmy catches Alastair’s eye, shakes his head. “I don’t think—”

“I’m serious. Rest of the family’s not back until tomorrow evening, got a spare room… why not?”

Alastair tries to silence the sudden bubble of excitement in his belly. “Sounds good to me.”

Jimmy’s a picture of uncertainty in the doorway: arms rigid at his sides, head down, jaw working like he’s chewing over his objections. Alastair feels Swanny nudge him in the side with his foot. He can guess – he thinks – what’s going through Jimmy’s mind, but he also knows what _he_ wants.

 _Sometimes you just have to steamroller the man_ , Swanny said, a few minutes ago, and it wasn’t exactly eloquent, but Alastair knows what he meant.

“Let’s stay,” he says. “No-one’ll bat an eyelid if they find out we were here, and there’s nothing to get up for tomorrow except checking out of the hotel and heading down to London.”

“Also,” says Swanny, “you can make as much noise as you like here. The spare room’s down the other end of the house from my bedroom, and I’ve got earplugs if necessary.”

Jimmy makes a face at Swanny’s back. “I… don’t know what to say to that.”

“Great!” says Swanny, “I’ll go and make up the bed.” He’s off like a shot.

Jimmy closes the door behind Swanny, but stays where he is. The silence stretches, relieved only by the sounds of Swanny moving about rather heavily upstairs.

Alastair examines the colour of the beer through the green bottle, and forms a question for himself. The fact that he’s said all that, that he’s persuaded Jimmy they should spend the night together, just after being reminded of the existence of Jimmy’s family. (Not that he’d ever forgotten; but.) Does that make him a worse person than if he’d suggested it without knowing about the phonecalls?

Yes; yes it does. And yet. Do the two things – the two worlds – _have_ to conflict? Can’t they fulfil different needs?

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Jimmy says.

“Come on, it’s harmless,” says Alastair. “And Swanny really wants us to stay, you know he does. He’s missing us.”

Alastair strongly suspects that’s not Swanny’s only reason for offering. He doesn’t actually have to admit that, though.

Jimmy sighs, but there’s the hint of a smile on him – or not a smile, exactly, more the lessening of grumpiness that’s a prelude to a smile – as he pushes himself away from the doorframe and slumps down into the place on the sofa just vacated by Swanny.

Alastair puts his bottle down, with a clink, on the coffee table, and moves closer to him.

Jimmy turns to look at him. “Do you have anything with you?”

“No, but I’m sure Swanny’s got, like, spare toothbrushes and things—”

Jimmy drums his fingers on Alastair’s thigh, then lets his hand rest there, warm. “You know what I mean.”

“Er, yes. I mean, no, I don’t have anything. Swanny… might?”

Jimmy snorts. “Are you going to ask him?”

“Good point. Though to be honest,” Alastair says, “I’m still a bit… how can I put this… from last night?”

Jimmy strokes a finger down his cheek. “Aw, did I wear you out?”

“Between lunch yesterday and last night? Little bit.” Alastair’s face heats at the memory. “Plus, we have a deal, remember. I took a wicket today.”

“So you did.” Jimmy’s hand starts to slide up Alastair’s inner thigh. “But there’s no need to stop there. Unless you’re _completely_ worn out…”

Alastair enjoys the sensation of Jimmy’s touch for a moment; he’s prepared for it to stop short, and it does. It’s just possible, he decides, that he might not be worn out, after all. “There’s a simple way round this.”

“Oh?”

Alastair leans over Jimmy’s motionless hand, bringing his face close to the other man’s. “You could nip back to the hotel and pick up what we need.”

Jimmy’s gaze flicks restlessly back and forth between Alastair’s eyes, and his lips. “I could, could I?”

“Well, like you said: you’re driving. And I have this feeling…” Alastair closes the gap, kisses Jimmy as thoroughly as he knows how. When he draws back again, his lips are tingling and Jimmy’s eyes are unfocused. “That yes. Yes you could. Because then we’ll have all night, we can pace ourselves… you can see where I’m going with this, right?”

Jimmy throws his head back against the sofa with a soft groan. “You make a convincing case. Okay, then.”

Alastair reaches into his pocket for his wallet; hands over his hotel keycard. “Marvellous. Toothbrush and a change of clothes, too, please.”

“ _What_?” says Jimmy, in mock outrage.

Alastair grins. “Would’ve thought you’d jump at the chance to pick out something for me to wear.”

Jimmy shrugs. “If the raw materials on offer were worth my time, maybe.” He starts to get up; pauses. “Can I bring back a razor, too?” He brushes his knuckles over Alastair’s beard. “So we can be free of this thing.”

“Oh, it’s _we_ , now? Whose chin is it, again?”

“Who’s on the receiving end, eh?” Jimmy stands up and rifles through his pockets for his car keys.

Alastair lies back, grabs a cushion from behind him and throws it at Jimmy’s head. Jimmy ducks.

“You know,” says Alastair, “the more you whinge about it, the more it makes me want to keep it.”

“Fine. I’ll shave it off you while you’re asleep tonight.”

“Try it, and I’ll shave off your eyebrows while _you’re_ asleep.”

“Pretty sure I’ll wake up.”

Alastair hears Swanny approaching, loudly. He raises his voice. “Pretty sure Swanny’ll help me hold you down.”

“He probably would, too.”

Swanny wanders in. “What am I helping with?”

“Shaving off Jimmy’s eyebrows.”

Swanny salutes, with a grin. “Aye, aye, cap’n. Ready whenever you need me.”

Jimmy tosses up his car keys, catches them. “Right, I’m off. Have fun plotting against me.”

Swanny puts his hands on his hips. “Where are you going? I just made up your bed with the sweat of my brow.”

“You make it sound so appealing.” Jimmy strides for the door, calling back over his shoulder as he goes. “I’m off to collect the tools for Ali to do the right thing.”

Alastair sits up, and yells after him, “The more you whinge, Jimmy! Remember that.”

Jimmy opens the front door, turns back for a moment, half-silhouetted against the evening sunlight. “Better keep one eye open tonight, is all I’m saying.” The door slams shut behind him.

When Alastair drags his gaze back into the room, Swanny’s smirking at him. “Lovers’ tiff?”

Alastair grins. “It’s possible we might be playing with razor blades in your spare room tonight. Do you mind?”

By the time he gets to the end of that, Swanny’s already halfway to the fridge. “As long as the sheets wash clean, knock yourselves out. Another beer?”

“Yes, please. And your answer was supposed to be no, under no circumstances will I let Jimmy shave off your beard in the middle of the night.”

Swanny gives him a considering look as he hands over a fresh bottle. “To be fair, you do look better without it.”

Alastair pouts. “True. And it’s kind of itchy. You got a spare razor?”

Swanny nods, slowly; a grin spreads across his face. “It would be quite funny if Jimmy returns all self-righteous and the beard’s already gone.”

“I think we both want to see that reaction, right?”

There follows ten minutes of Alastair shaving, carefully (very aware of the beer he’s sunk and the wine they had with dinner), while Swanny perches on the edge of the bath and keeps making Alastair stop to laugh at tales of TMS versus Sky bickering. Then Alastair’s back on the sofa, stroking his smooth, slightly tender jaw and tucking into his second beer.

“Sounds,” he says, “like life after cricket’s treating you pretty well.”

Swanny, back in his place at the end of the sofa near the doors, smiles. “Yeah, can’t complain. My kids know who I am, now, which is nice. At least until they’ve thrown up everywhere or something. Then suddenly the urge to be the perfect daddy sort of diminishes.”

“Good. …I think?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. I get paid to talk, eat cake, and flirt with Aggers. And Simon Mann. And… basically, I’m a massive tart.”

“Boycs, too?”

Swanny laughs. “Above and beyond, Cooky. I’m not _that_ committed to winding up cricket’s great and good.”

Alastair takes a reflective sip of his beer. “Do you miss playing?”

“I do. Not everything. I don’t miss fitness training. Or having to watch my diet. I don’t miss the press scrutiny at all. But… yeah. I miss Tests. I miss the drama _and_ the boredom.” Swanny stretches his legs towards the coffee table; his feet don’t quite reach it. “I miss putting my feet up in the dressing room while you bat for two days straight.”

 _I miss that, too_ , thinks Alastair; he keeps his face smooth.

“And Jimmy,” Swanny goes on, looking down at his hands, “and you. I don’t like feeling as if I’m suddenly on the outside, looking in on… on a world I was part of for so long.”

“Nah,” says Alastair, quickly. He can’t bear Swanny looking sad. “You’re not on the outside. You could never be on the outside. Not really. We’ve spent so much time together. Rain delays and victory drinks and spats with… Yeah. You know us all too well.”

“On which note,” says Swanny, “one more piece of advice. And I want to emphasise that I’m saying this as a friend.”

“Sure – what is it?”

Swanny doesn’t answer; doesn’t answer for so long that Alastair turns to look at him. “What?”

Swanny’s frowning at his bottle. “Be a bit careful, yeah? Don’t go all in.”

Alastair watches him. “What do you mean?”

“Just… keep something in reserve, for yourself. Jimmy’s got a huge heart, but he’s… He doesn’t know himself as well as he thinks he does.”

Alastair waits, but there’s nothing else forthcoming. He sits back against the sofa cushions, his thoughts a whirl. And there’s no time to pursue it, because the sound of a car reversing onto the driveway is drifting in through the open windows.

As soon as Jimmy’s inside, Swanny snaps right back into his normal, cheery self. He moves across to the other sofa, leaving the space next to Alastair for Jimmy, and once they’ve done the necessary laughing at Jimmy over the beard issue, somehow or other Swanny manages to talk them both into watching the highlights of the day’s play. But Alastair stays thoughtful, only properly joining in again when the two bowlers in the room mute the TV and start providing their own commentary on his deliveries.

He never could resist them when they joined forces to tease him together. 

\--

When Alastair wakes up, the next morning, he’s disorientated: the light’s coming from the wrong direction, the sheets smell different, plus there’s a wall about six inches from his face – right up against the edge of the bed – and an unfamiliar weight across his mid-section. He’s somewhere in between lying on his back and on his left-hand side. Then he feels breath on his arm, something else tickling the skin around his shoulderblades, and realises.

Jimmy has an arm flung over Alastair’s side, draped across his chest; and when Alastair lifts his face and cranes his neck, ever so slightly, to look behind him, he spots Jimmy’s hair. This is what’s tickling his shoulder. The other man has the top of his head pressed into Alastair’s back. So either Alastair’s rolled onto Jimmy’s head at some point, or Jimmy has pushed him partway over.

Alastair lets his own head drop down again to the pillow, keen not to disturb the scene. Jimmy must have moved during the night, because they definitely didn’t go to sleep like this. Last night, they were on their own sides of the bed. Jimmy was very particular about which side was his; when Alastair wandered back in from brushing his teeth, having bid a sleepy good night to Swanny in the corridor, Jimmy had already taken up station on the side nearest the door, and flatly refused to cede the ground to Alastair, even when Alastair none-too-gently clambered across him to get to the space on the other side of him.

 _Don’t like sleeping against the wall_ , Jimmy muttered, and that was that.

Alastair rolls, carefully, so he’s lying properly on his side, facing the wall. Jimmy shifts, wrapping his arm more firmly around Alastair’s waist, moving his head so what feels like his chin is at the base of Alastair’s neck. Jimmy’s chest is against Alastair’s back, now, and one of his legs is echoing the line of Alastair’s. But the rhythm of Jimmy’s breathing doesn’t change, and Alastair suspects he’s still asleep.

And he can’t deny there’s a little glow in him at all this. He settles in to enjoy the feel of Jimmy against his skin, and lets his thoughts drift. He doesn’t know what’ll happen after this morning: whether Jimmy will start spending the night in his hotel room now, or if they’ll go back to the way things have been; whether things will continue at all.

Surely they will, though. Continue, that is; one way or the other. If Alastair had any doubts about his own feelings on the matter, they’ve been banished by his actions last night: by how quickly he recovered from being taken aback by Swanny’s revelation about Jimmy’s phonecalls, and blithely persuaded Jimmy to stay the night here.

Alastair’s having an affair. They’re having an affair. This is a choice he’s made, a new thing he’s accepted about himself: he’s not as good, as moral, a person as he thought he was. He wants the man whose chest he can feel rising and falling against him, just as he wants the wife and daughter waiting for him at home. He wants the way Jimmy makes him feel: the desire, and the comfort.

He knows he’ll need to talk to Jimmy about this at some point, if things go on; he’s equally certain that that conversation will be like getting blood from a stone. He thinks, for a while, over what Swanny said last night: _don’t go all in_.

Maybe it’s better left unsaid, for now. There’s time: a whole Indian summer stretching out before them. Four more Tests, and with them all sorts of pressures that make Alastair’s stomach sink whenever he so much as edges around thinking about them. Maybe they'll get bored or drive each other batty before anything gets more complicated. Here, and now, what he needs is this; simply this.

Jimmy’s breathing has got lighter. Alastair feels the other man starting to stir; some parts of him faster than others. Alastair shifts a little, backwards: leaning more firmly into Jimmy, skin against skin. He feels a different sort of glow, now.

They’re close enough – and it’s quiet enough – that, a few minutes later, he hears Jimmy swallow before he speaks.

“Morning.” It's a little tentative.

Alastair’s quite grateful he’s facing away from Jimmy; he suspects the width of his sudden smile would scare the other man off.

“Good morning.” He makes himself sound more tired than he is, like he’s just woken up himself. “Sleep well?”

Jimmy’s breath is ticklish on the back of Alastair’s neck. “Yeah. You?”

“Out like a light.” Alastair wonders if he can get away with laying his arm over the top of Jimmy’s, or if that’d be pushing things too far. “I see you’ve got over your dislike of this side of the bed, then.”

The arm around his waist moves, solving the dilemma; lazy fingertips start to trail up and down Alastair’s chest. “Well,” says Jimmy, “you’re in it. So that helps.”

Lips, soft, at the nape of Alastair’s neck; he closes his eyes. After some thorough coverage there, Jimmy moves on to kissing his way along Alastair’s shoulder; his fingertips, meanwhile, home in on a nipple. Alastair’s body starts to wake up in a flurry of prickles and tingles and warmth, and he conveys his approval with a contented sigh.

Then, abruptly, it all stops. Alastair’s drawing breath to tell Jimmy off for being a massive tease – again – when the other man starts to speak.

“It’s not… I don’t have to sleep on a particular side of _all_ beds. I just wanted to be on this side of this bed.”

“Why?”

“Because… I don’t know. Because the bed’s up against the wall on that side.”

“No escape route?” Alastair says it lightly, joking; but Jimmy’s voice when he replies is quiet.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Jimmy’s hand starts to move again: firmer, more purposefully, downwards this time. It’s got distraction written all over it, but Alastair’s not complaining.

He’s not (quite) ready to let it go, though, either. As Jimmy starts to trail kisses across his back, Alastair can’t help but ask, “You’d seriously rather have me climb over you to get in and out than vice versa?”

He feels Jimmy’s smile against his skin. “Definitely. Because then I can grope you while you’re all off-balance and precarious.”

Alastair laughs, changes position a bit so he can properly feel Jimmy’s growing excitement. Jimmy takes advantage of the move, slides his other arm underneath Alastair and closes it tightly around his waist.

“Plus,” he says, “if _you’re_ the one against the wall, it makes you much easier to trap.”

“Damn,” says Alastair, “tricked again.”

He moves his head round as far as he can, and Jimmy’s face comes up to meet him. Between the strong arm holding him in place and the hand teasing its way around his inner thighs, the kiss is exquisitely arousing, for all that it tastes of morning breath and stale beer.

“I’ve got an idea,” says Jimmy, a little later.

“If it involves you carrying on doing what you’re doing, I’m all ears.”

“I couldn’t help but notice, last night, that there’s a completely enormous shower in that bathroom. How about we go and investigate it?”

And Alastair says, “Yeah, why not?” Like it’s the most routine and unremarkable thing in the world. Like he’s doing an impression of Jimmy.

Like this could all just go on as it is, no questions asked, or answered.

\--

It’s with considerable reluctance that Jimmy leaves Ali alone upstairs, dawdling over getting dressed. Jimmy suspects the dawdling may be a ploy to get out of helping with breakfast, but after the interlude in the shower he’s too thoroughly satisfied to care.

(Also, there was a risk that if half-naked Ali did much more stretching and bending – or, frankly, breathing – in front of him, Jimmy would never actually leave the bedroom at all. In conclusion: he’s a mug for a pretty face. Arse. Whatever.)

Swanny’s at the kitchen table, reading the paper with a mug in one hand. He looks up as Jimmy walks in, and grins, broadly.

“Good morning. You look pleased with yourself.”

Jimmy flicks the switch on the kettle, leans back against the counter. He raises his chin, runs his nails up over the stubble under there a couple of times. “That’s because I _am_ pleased with myself.”

“Seriously, I haven’t seen you looking this smug in _ages_.” Swanny gets up and goes to the fridge, starts unloading eggs and bacon. “Things must be going well.”

Jimmy shrugs, reaches into the cupboard under the kettle for a frying pan. “I guess. Are we frying the bacon, too, or just the eggs?”

“Ooh, both, definitely,” says Swanny, slicing open the bacon packet. “I’ve strayed from the path of healthy eating and I’ve got no intention of going back.”

Jimmy snorts as he pours a little oil into one of the pans, and turns on the stove. “You were never _on_ the path of healthy eating.”

“You’ve got _no_ room to talk. Just because you can eat whatever crap you like and never put on weight.”

Jimmy shakes his head. “So very bitter. It’s sad, really.”

The oil starts to sizzle. Swanny hands over the bacon. “Is he coming down?”

“Mmm.” Jimmy’s intent on fitting as many rashers in the pan as possible. “Just getting dressed.”

“I must say, I’m amazed to see you down here before him. Surely he’s not spending longer in front of the mirror than you.”

Jimmy makes a show of peering at the bacon; the thought of Ali still undressed up there is more distracting than it should be, given what they’ve already been up to this morning. “No, not much chance of that.”

Swanny is suddenly at Jimmy’s side, putting a spatula in his hand. Jimmy’s glance at him gets in a head-on collision with a smirk. “James Anderson, you’ve got it bad.”

Jimmy concentrates on the bacon, trying to neither smile nor ponder whether Swanny’s right. “Why don’t you make me some tea, instead of commentating on my sex life?”

Swanny’s quiet, blessedly, for almost the whole twenty seconds it takes him to drop a teabag and a heaped spoon of sugar in a mug. Jimmy knows this means something else is coming. (Swanny never shuts up, really; he just switches between speaking out loud and plotting his next few sentences in his head.) And so it proves.

Swanny doesn’t even make it through filling the mug with hot water before he puts the kettle down, and says, in a low voice, “If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you.”

It takes Jimmy a moment to parse what he’s said; it’s such a break with the teasing tone of just before. He stares at the other man, bemused.

“Chill, Swanny; no-one’s getting hurt. It’s just a bit of fun.”

“No, it’s not. You know it’s not. You’ve been friends for too long. You’ve been after him for too long. And you both…” Swanny glances round at the door, as if he’s checking Ali hasn’t come in. “It’s not simple and it’s never going to be.”

Jimmy looks away, prods at the bacon. “That’s my business. Our business.”

“In the nicest possible way, bollocks. I care about you. Both of you. And I _know_ you both, and this is not—”

“Why me?”

“What?”

“Why are you assuming that if someone gets hurt, it’ll be my fault?”

“Because Cooky’s had basically one proper relationship in his entire life, and that’s his marriage.”

“He’s not a kid,” Jimmy says, through gritted teeth.

“But he’s not experienced. Not like you are. And you…” Swanny takes a deep breath, says, “Look, I know about you and Michael Clarke, all right?”

Jimmy swiftly decides there’s no point in playing dumb. “What about _me and Michael Clarke_?” He puts a sarcastic stress on the phrase.

Something about this answer seems to wrong-foot Swanny; or maybe it’s just that he wasn’t expecting Jimmy to admit it so quickly. It’s a moment before Swanny says, “Well. Word is, it wasn’t exactly a healthy—”

“It was bad, and it ended badly,” says Jimmy. “That’s all there is to say.”

“No.” Swanny’s shaking his head. He sounds almost angry, now. “No, from what I hear, it never really ended. A little Aussie bird told me that, after I left the tour in the winter, you went back to that particular well.”

Jimmy rounds on him, waving the spatula sharply; he sees a drop of oil go flying off the end of it.

“ _He_ came to _me_.”

_Shit._

Graeme looks smug.

Jimmy closes his eyes, briefly. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yep.”

(Oh, and now – _now_ – Swanny keeps his mouth shut. Until Jimmy starts talking, just for the sake of breaking the silence.)

“Pup came by to taunt me after you left. Guess he thought I’d be… I don’t know, vulnerable.”

(Actually, Jimmy’s more or less sure that’s why Clarke turned up at his hotel room that night; Pup always could smell emotional blood in the water. He had a knack for showing up whenever Jimmy was at a low ebb, making him feel better, briefly, and then much worse. And that night, Pup played – they both played – very much to type.)

“He thought you and me were… you know. A thing.” Jimmy puts the spatula down beside the stove, pushes a hand through his hair. “Okay, I let him think that. It stopped him sniffing around over the past few years. Mostly. But it meant that he couldn’t wait to rub it in once you were gone.”

 _Thought you might be lonely_ , Pup said, that night. _Ashes lost. Team falling apart. Boyfriend run out on you. Thought you might want to take out some aggression. Or want me to take some out on you._

“Rub it in?” Swanny snorts. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Not funny.”

“Little bit funny.”

“Why’s everything always a joke, with you?”

“You know why,” says Graeme, quietly. “Anyway, so did Cooky. He thought you and me were together, too.”

Jimmy blinks at him. “Really?”

“That’s what I said. Well, in more words, obviously. Isn’t _that_ funny?”

(Now that Swanny mentions it, a vague memory stirs in Jimmy. Something Ali said, that evening at Headingley. _I thought you were cheating on Swanny_. He assumed, at the time, that Ali was joking.)

Anyway. “That was it,” Jimmy says. “The last time. Done.”

Jimmy remembers what else Pup said, somewhere between the initial snarling of insults and the point where an exchange of tense, testy shoves snapped abruptly into Jimmy knocking Pup to the floor.

_Knew it wouldn’t last. Stability’s not your scene, Jimmy. And face it, everyone’s going to fuck you over eventually. That’s how people are. At least with me you know what you’re getting. No illusions._

A split second after Clarke hit the carpet (or so it felt), he got the smirk on him that said – that always says – he’d won and he knew it. Then he took Jimmy’s legs out from under him and everything happened pretty quickly after that.

Jimmy spent most of the next day hiding in his room, pretending he was sick. In a way, he was.

(A few days later, he made a discreet appointment; got himself checked out. There’d been no condom. They’ve always been stupid and self-destructive, together, but Jimmy wasn’t about to put his wife at risk.)

Swanny reaches past him, picks up the spatula, and starts turning the bacon.

“You have to tell him, Jimmy,” he says. “Cooky needs to know. Because if Clarke gets even a sniff of what’s going on with you two? Next time you guys play Australia, he’s going to pour poisoned needles into Alastair’s ears every time that man sets foot in the crease. Do you really want him to hear about it like that?”

Jimmy feels a chill. “But that’s ages… I mean, who knows, by then we probably won’t even be…”

“It doesn’t _matter_. It doesn’t matter whether it’s over by then. Doesn’t even matter if it never happened in the first place.” Swanny pauses a moment, then says, “Jimmy, I know about this because _I_ got shit from Clarke about you, okay? And you never even gave me the time of day.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.” Swanny sounds, suddenly, weary. “Have I made my point?”

Jimmy pushes his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he says; forces himself to say. “It’s just… I’m not proud of it, you know? I don’t want him to think of me like that. I don’t want to scare him off.”

He feels Swanny’s hand on his shoulder; a firm grip.

“Then explain it to him,” he says. “Take control of the story, before someone else does. And Jimmy…” The hand on Jimmy’s shoulder gives him a brisk squeeze. “I’d be very surprised if it scares him off. He likes you. God knows why, grumpy sod that you are, although I suppose you’re reasonably easy on the eye. And apparently quite useful in bed, too, if the smile Cooky had on his face when I bumped into him coming out of the bathroom last night is anything to go by.”

“Graeme.”

“What? There were at least two whole compliments in there. Just be grateful I didn’t mention the _noise_ from last night.”

“Thought you said you had earplugs.”

“It takes time to get them in! I wasn’t prepared.”

Swanny lifts his face, his eyes roll back, and he vents an extraordinary moan: lengthy, loud, rising and falling in pitch. Jimmy’s efforts to shush him - "We did _not_ sound like that!" - only succeed in making him get louder.

Jimmy casts about for a weapon, grabs the bacon spatula. “Right,” he says, and swipes at the top of Swanny’s head with it. Swanny dodges, takes one look at him and runs off through the house, moaning at the top of his voice. Jimmy, still brandishing the spatula, gives chase.

They’re on maybe their third circuit of the house when Jimmy runs past the stairs and realises they’re being watched. He screeches to a halt, and looks back. Ali’s standing on the bottom step, leaning on the end of the bannister, laughing merrily. He’s wearing the clothes Jimmy brought back for him last night: tailored grey trousers, and a tight (very tight) pale blue shirt. (It’s possible Jimmy picked it because it looked smaller than everything else. It’s possible he spent some time examining labels to find out which shirt was smaller than everything else.)

Jimmy strolls back for a better look. The trousers were made, apparently, by Jimmy’s kind of tailor; not a lot of imagination needed in the arse department.

“Not bad,” Jimmy says, “considering what I had to work with.”

“You scrub up okay yourself. Though I suppose you do put a lot of effort in.”

Jimmy steps up into Ali’s space, spatula dangling from his hand. “Don’t _you_ start,” he says. “I’ve had enough of that already this morning from Swanny.”

Fingers hook around Jimmy’s belt, pull him closer. “If you want to avoid being mocked, how about you talk less, and kiss me more?”

“Keep your mouth busy, you mean?”

Ali’s gaze isn’t wavering from Jimmy’s lips. “Something like that.”

This seems like an excellent suggestion; Jimmy follows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanky fic continuity bit:
> 
> There's a bit of a retcon lurking behind this chapter. In ['Avoiding, Catching, Letting Go'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2580317), Swanny seems not to know about Jimmy's history with Pup; here, he says outright that he does, and has done for some time. In practical terms, that's because I hadn't originally planned for this history to be much of a thing. Then I wrote the Jimmy/Pup scene in ['Remembering, Trying to Forget'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2651915), and the ship really sparked for me (in a horrendously messed up way). So during the writing of this chapter, I decided that a) Swanny was just pretending not to know anything in 'Avoiding...', for the sake of winding up Jimmy (and also because he didn't want Jimmy to know he knew, or rather how/why he knew), and b) Swanny has done some further investigating since 'Avoiding...' and realised that the whole thing was bigger and more serious than he realised. Discovering that Jimmy slept with Pup in Australia during the 2013-14 Ashes, in particular - given that this was exactly the time when Swanny was encouraging Alastair to go for it with Jimmy - has changed his attitude from "lol what an embarrassing ex" to "wtf Jimmy stop that shit right now".
> 
> My meta justification for this is twofold: first, I've never done a Swanny PoV, so we don't _really_ know what he knows or thinks at any given moment, only what can be observed; and second, there are two other occasions I can think of during the 'Snapshots' series when Swanny flat-out lied to Jimmy and/or Alastair, so it's not out of character. (And, of course, if plumjaffas is right, there's a much, much bigger lie of omission running right through the series and in particular through ['Five Rooms...' chapter two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2433776/chapters/5475674) and 'Remembering...'. So that's a cheerful thought :D)


End file.
